The room is cold when I wake. Colder than, in my mind, it should be in June but there it is anyway. The fresh morning air filling the room through the open window is still a gift.
I rise and pad to the kitchen for coffee. While it brews I survey the space I’ve been given.
The moon, like a cookie with a nibble taken from it atop the hills out the south-facing window is bright and brilliant. In awe, I whisper “good morning, moon”, less greeting the celestial planet and more the One who set it there.
Then I stand at the north-facing windows of our living room and look out at the clear pre-dawn sky (ah, the weather forecasters got it wrong again) and the calm reflection on the sliver of river I see in the valley.
Day begins in peace.
Then I hear sirens from the valley. And more sirens. And someone’s day is dawning with anything but peace. And that’s the way it goes.
The beautiful and the terrible.
And I’m weary and I’m hopeful and I’m all those things in between and I stand in the kitchen and lift my eyes to the hills through the window above the kitchen sink.