First awareness moves across the horizon of my mind.
I am here. Morning is here.
My eyes flutter open and close again against the pale light seeping into the room.
Arms and legs stretch long and slow, like a starfish, and then curl and settle again into the nest of blankets and sheets that I’ve created in the night.
I feel safe here. Here in this bed. Here in this moment. At the birth of this day – a day so new that it is still perfect.
I lay very still. Simply breathing.
Waking is worship.
Waking is grace.
In the first breaths of morning, everything is pure.
No doubts or fears have clouded my thinking. No unkind word has left my lips. No dream for this day has disintegrated in disappointment or defeat. No other person’s words or actions have cut my still-tender heart. I have not eaten a bite of anything “bad” for me. I have not failed yet again to exercise or keep my house clean or be patient with my children or write a novel.
It only lasts a moment ... this grace.
Just one holy moment before the insistent “must “and “should” and “hurry” and “worry” spill into the quiet - chattering, muttering, clamoring.
Burrowing deeper beneath the covers, I hold them at bay.
Not yet, I beg the invaders. Just a moment longer, please.
One more moment where it seems possible that I shall live this day well.
I am here. Morning is here.
Waking is worship.
Waking is grace.
And when the day becomes marred by care and toil and regret and fear...
When I lie down again hours from now ...
Whatever has come and gone ...
My resting will be worship.
My resting will be grace.
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