morning gift

To see the morning as gift – this is the prayer of the tired mother. When even the day itself threatens to become one big inconvenience, it must be remade in this whispered offering, made into the day I can rejoice in. To let go of the covers is to give up the warm comforts of self and most coveted sleep, and I open my hands and stumble down the hall and into what I hope is grace to make these steps firm today.

Cries from the crib change to coos in my arms and a big flannel smile. The fire flickers into a blaze and the coffee blooms in the French press, and I can feel some warmth seeping in. It’s not the warmth of the bed, no; it is the warmth of a day begun, a day chosen. A day I may have to offer again so I can live this gift and not let it slip away, not stomp all over it because it is not going my way.

A little boy bounces with joy, wide eyed for the wide open day, and I smile too, whisper a thank you for the day – yes, even the morning.

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