Painted Morning

A few days ago I had an unusual morning.

Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it.  First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness.  More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove.  Second of all, the morning seemed brighter.  More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment.  I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.

I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation.  But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.

God was with me this morning.

Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day.  I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect.  But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.

 But today, it seems He came to me.

This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time.  I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway.  But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf. 

There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it.  No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of.  Just a vague feeling of closeness.


I think sometimes God just misses us.

And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.


My morning had a fresh chill to it.  Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake.  A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem.  Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground.  Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls.  That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air.  Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.

Writers live for days like these.  I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.

S