Wednesday, February 2, 2011


My alarm beeps and I slide out of bed, careful not to disturb little one who slipped in with me in the middle of the night. I tuck him in again and make my creaky way down the stairs, stopping only to pick up the basket of laundry waiting for me.

I'm in the kitchen before I turn on the light, hold my breath and listen - was I followed? Perhaps today the silence will stretch a bit longer. I start coffee and make my way to the living room.

Here I am met with the last reminders of yesterday - a pair of trains abandoned on the coffee table, a ball of yarn lying soft on the floor, a crayon (two?) under a chair. The candlesticks on my mantle have been standing sentry all night, backs straight, watching over a house laid to rest and waiting for the morrow.

And its here. I crack open words, sip coffee and feed a soul; I close my eyes and, in silence, my heart speaks. The furnace clicks on downstairs. I take deep breaths.

Now, fully centered, with hope and intent, I can begin my day. It feels so good, these moments of silent communion, I wonder - why do I have such a poor soul - memory?  Why can't I remember how wonderful this is, giving the first fruits of my day to the One who made it all possible?

At the end of the day, I am usually drained - empty of every drop.  I crawl into bed bone dry, completely depleted.  I need to refuel, refill before I can take on another.  And the days that I don't, well, I live my entire day empty.  And it doesn't feel good.

Last sip of coffee, and its time to start laundry - unload dishwasher, get breakfast on the table.  The day has begun.  And I'm ready.

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