These Quiet Mornings

I wake this morning aching grateful. Morning comes, and I greet it leash in hand. The dew grass spit as we trampled down the knee stalks, the water splashing between my toes and out my shoes.I watch my dogs put noses to the ground, waddle off into the higher grass, spring back, jump up to my nose and lick it. I pet their heads and call them by name. We meander back to the house. Door open; wet paws slip on the hardwoods.

There is joy in the morning, these quiet mornings.

Coffee sputters and gurgles. I stand and wait and wait and wait. Favorite mug, a touch of cream, breathe in morning’s smell. One child up already makes breakfast. Perhaps, I shall write a bit before the burden of the day begins anew. In those stolen bits, I burrow away in my writing corner, my desk to give life to my thoughts. I need this ritual of writing in the morning. Before the email blares its siren song, before the “I can’t take another minute of you” bicker begins, before the demands of video games and television and whinings all crash-land in my living room. Now, I write before the day steals my morning from me.

There is joy in the morning, these quiet mornings.

Today, deep in the South’s wet blanket humid summer, it’s easy to allow day to rob me of this morning. I never wake without a list of things to do, hardships breaking my resolve. In short, my mornings aren’t always grateful, sunshine-filled gloriousness. I have bad days, but isn’t this what grace is for? Don’t we all have days when the bed throws us into a world ready for a new victim? But mornings do come again for me, and I embrace this morning with grace.

There is joy in the morning, these quiet mornings.

 

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