Long before dawn I’m awake. It’s still mostly dark as I reach for my iPad to read for a while, and tap out some words.

Through the open door, the eastern sky takes on a pinkish hue. Lines cut across it: whether clouds or contrails I can’t yet tell.

They might make an interesting photograph in a half-hour or so, and I consider going downstairs to set up my camera gear.

Instead I watch a hummingbird come to the feeder.

Day dawns gentle and the spectacle I expected never comes. I’m glad I stayed and watched the bird.

Some mornings arrive on the clash of an almost-violent red symphony. Others tiptoe in like a whisper.

Glory, they say, loud or soft, as the miracle of a new morning blesses us and we lift our eyes to give thanks.


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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