Lament

The yips and yowls of coyotes wake me again. Their cries so loud it seems they’re right outside the bedroom window. Likely not, but they’re near. It’s haunting, this chorus of—what? Celebration? Mating? Aggression? Just checking in with other coyotes in the area? Are there two or ten of them? Who knows. I hope all the neighbourhood

Day Begins

It’s dark when I rise these days. Still night, really. Certainly too dark to step out on the deck and greet the morning (I stopped doing that a few weeks ago when I encountered a black, hard-shelled creature the size of a Volkswagen). I sit in a wing chair near the window where, eventually, I’ll

Good Morning

I miss the awe of watching the changing eastern sky in the early morning when morning whispers and night tiptoes into obscurity. For many months now, when I wake shortly after 4 a.m., I’ve chosen to spend the first silent hours under a Sherpa blanket in the den, with a basket of supplies (Bible, notebook,

Be Still and Know

Today is the last Sunday in Ordinary Time. I’ve felt a tug toward Advent for weeks and yet there is wisdom in remaining in this season we call ordinary. This morning I read familiar words in the psalms: Be still and know. We quiet ourselves and rest in assurance. We remember seasons in which we

My Kitchen in the Morning

I love my kitchen in the morning at this time of year. It’s dark when I pad from our bedroom to the kitchen to make the first cup of coffee. The only light comes from the AeroGarden that comes on automatically at around 4:30 am. It’s warmer in here than in the bedroom where the

Monday Mercy

It’s just after four when I stand at the microwave watching the red numbers count down from seventy-seven. The Keurig coughs and spurts out elixir behind me. Oh God, you have brought me in safety to this new day. That thing in my body that’s been causing me trouble still burns, that concern in my

Morning Prayer

The pre-dawn sky looks something like this. Not quite, because the miracle never looks the same more than once. I watch as it grows more spectacular with every passing second. Glory, I say in the quiet of my mind. Gerry gets up to make coffee and pauses as he passes the east facing open door in

But

I surface from slumber in prayer and a still, small whisper tells me something I’m prone to forget. You’re carrying a burden that isn’t yours to carry. I know, but . . . I do that so often. I try to justify my worries as if my particular circumstance is beyond the scope of the