I’m a morning person. I’ve always been a morning person. If I wake up after the sun has already risen, I feel cheated out of a gift. My mind is sharp in the pre-dawn hours and fades gradually as the day unfolds.
After brewing a small pot of tea, I head outside to my back porch if the weather permits, or to my corner seat in our tiny office. Inside, I lean into my heating pad, wrap my aching leg muscles in the cocoon of a soft wool blanket, sip my cup of tea, and listen. I focus in on the still quiet voice inside of me, nestle into seeing all your faces, and breath my prayers for you.
From my reading chair, I face a window into my garden framed by a Japanese maple, a constant harbinger of the changing seasons. Our winged menagerie sing messages amplified at dawn.
My innermost thoughts, those that are as deep as where “joints and marrow divide” (Hebrews 4:12) spill out against the backdrop music of the dawn orchestra. Birds sing mostly at this time, their voices traveling further, announcing their back-and-forth messages carried by the cool, dewy, moist air. Even they are morning creatures!
Truths are more in focus for me in the morning, truths I should already know, yet somehow even though they lay totally, vulnerably exposed, I miss them. They seem to lie in secret like the left-over seeds from last year, barely there under the soft fertile soil, waiting for the right season, the right timing to sprout and surprise me with their delicate, yet tenacious presence.
What message is the dawn singing to you this morning? What tiny truth is sprouting in your heart today?
In prayer (meditation), deep answers deep. God becomes the living truth of our most memorable and shaping experience, not its object only, but its essence. He who speaks to us also hears in us, because he opens our visual ear, so that our prayer is a soliloquy with God, a monologue a deux.