In the Morning

I snuggle into the warmth of flannel sheets and listen to the regular sound of Murphy’s breathing coming from his crate next to the bed. Gerry stirs, rises, and pads from the bedroom, taking Maya with him for her first outside visit of the day. Rarely is he up before me, but this morning I’m not ready to face the headlines. War. Last night it was rumour; I fear this morning it will be reality.

Just a few more minutes. Let me linger here a little longer before the wild things of this day lunge at me with barred teeth behind sneering, foaming lips. I lift my thoughts in prayer for leaders, countries, and ordinary people. I remember a 160-acre farm in Saskatchewan that Gerry and I came close to buying and wonder what it would be like to ride out the storm on our own land. Reluctantly, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Might as well face whatever there is that needs facing today.

So, I brew tea. Peek at the news. Shower. Look out the window and cuss at the freshly fallen show. Perform the liturgy of setting out four piles of vitamins. Sweep the floor. Hug my granddaughter as she heads off to school. And the day begins.

Praying for Canada.

Praying for Ukraine.

Praying for the world.

Praying for people.



I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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