Morning Comes Early

The day starts one way and ends another. As it winds down we sit in the hot tub talking about important things like clouds and the garden and some other less important things too. I watch the daisies dance in the breeze.

It’s getting dark by the time we come in the house and I’m startled by the realization. We’re inching farther away from one solstice and toward another. Time’s passing. There’s no point in trying to deny it. And there’s that thing about seasons I’ve been pondering again.

I go upstairs and switch on the light on my bedside table, turn back the duvet, and climb into bed to read. Maya stands at the bedroom door, conflicted. Gerry hasn’t come upstairs yet—the alpha in our little pack is still up—she lays down in the doorway to wait.

Night falls, and we three rest and morning comes early. Mom used to tell me that when she was putting me to bed. She was right. I wake before dawn, delighted at the cloudless sky outside the window and the hummingbird at the feeder. I read for a while as the other two sleep.

Gerry gets up and takes Maya outside for her morning ablutions. He delivers soy milky frothy coffee before heading off to men’s meeting. I stand at the bedroom window watching in wonder as the first rays of sunlight dance with the daisies down below.

I settle in to read, contemplate some, and pray. One day ends, another begins. And so it goes.


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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