At Art House America, a beautiful reflection on ordinary mornings from Allison Gaskins:
The coffee pot steams and hisses at me like a surly teenager. Is this an early morning rebuke or a salute of some kind? Tentatively I suss my emotions: is the nagging fear there today? Does dread rest heavy on my shoulders yet? Shake them, shrug it off, don’t give it a resting place today. Do I feel that nameless weight and sense the clouds moving in?
Not yet. I am momentarily weightless standing here in the waning night, loose from sleep and freed by unfettered rest. Is it even right to be taking my emotional temperature this early in the morning? Shouldn’t I be telling myself how I feel? Brand new day! Clean slate! Expect to see God’s goodness! His mercies are new every morning! I do believe this. But some days it’s hard for the message to sink into my gut. I need extra time to dress myself in that truth. It requires extra time in the pink chair and lots of silence so I can listen to the still, small voice speaking so much softer than the loud, angry ones in my head. If Lego bricks jab my bare feet in the dark on the way to the pink chair, my first waking words are ugly. If I make it to the chair with toes and coffee intact, I can sink in and sit in the dark and remember how to breathe on purpose. The window by my ear is cracked open, no matter the weather, because I need to listen. Here I am again, Lord. It’s another day. O, help.