Early morning is my time. I prefer to rise while it’s still dark. I’m obviously not wired for late nights; my thinking gets muddled as the hours grow darker, but watching the sun rise gives me an edge on the day that I can’t capture any other way.
My routine is simple: sneak out of bed without waking my husband or baby, creep past the closed doors of sleeping children (pausing to listen for their rhythmic breathing), navigating the pitch black stairs, and finally stepping into the still silence of the dark family room. Then it’s coffee, my favorite lap quilt, my spot on the love seat, a Bible, and a laptop. At Christmas time, I leave the lights off, and I wonder at the illuminated tree for a bit before opening my Bible and asking God what He has for me.
All I need is twenty minutes — twenty precious minutes before the rest of the house yawns and stretches and begins to tumble down to join me. Some days I get it, some days I don’t.
Today, I did not.
Stretched thin from a weekend full of the kind of interactions that make this introvert run on empty, I had been especially careful to plan for this quiet space here, in the beginning of the week. I had taken pains to rise a few minutes even beyond my normal hour, in the hopes that I would beat the small people I love to the punch of starting Monday.
I was just about to the couch when I heard a slightly stifled, small cough. It was Birdie. Feet silent in footie pjs, hair still braided from the day before, her sweet, 5 year-old voice whispered, “Good morning, Momma,” and I knew that she was not going back to bed.
In that moment, I wanted to send her back upstairs. I wanted to try to eek out a few moments of calm, alone, in the way that is my habit.
Instead, I thought of the 19 year-old girl on the other side of the globe (also an early to bed, early to rise gal) with whom I have only had the privilege of sharing so many morning. I thought of the 18 year-old daughter upstairs, still asleep, who interviewed for an apprenticeship just last week.
I opened the quilt and pulled her in.
Together, we wondered at the lights, the quiet, the miracle of Christmas. She asked how I slept, and what I was reading in my Bible. We sang.
It wasn’t the quiet time I had planned for the morning, but it was, indeed, a quiet time.
Play the hand you’re dealt, right? I’m glad you were able to savor the morning, even though it didn’t go the way you wanted (and probably needed).