I wake from a dream in which someone stands in my bedroom doorway, tells me she feels like she’s getting the flu, and then comes and sits in the edge of my bed to chat.

My thoughts upon waking go something like this. No. I’m not allowing this pandemic to enter my dreams and steal my peace any more than it already has. Not happening.

I’m pretty good during the day but lately, after supper as another quiet day winds down, I feel a familiar burn in the pit of my stomach smoulder. Now it’s crept into my dreams. I’m not having it.

So, I switch up my morning routine and instead of taking my first delicious cup of soy milky frothy coffee to the dark solitude of the den, return to our bedroom and sit upright in bed to read, write, and watch the sun rise.

In time, Gerry pads downstairs to his office for his weekly Bible study group on Zoom and I reach for my own Bible.  And the day begins in peace.


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.

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