The house is still and quiet. Morning light seeps through window shades, but in a soft way that eases me into the day. It's softer, subtle, inviting.I move with quietness hoping my little one can sleep just for just a bit longer. I run the water and scoop coffee grounds and make my cup of cozy. I love the whirring, steaming, pouring sounds of coffee being made. It sounds like morning. And it smells like my mom wearing her plaid fleece robe standing in the kitchen when I am ten, greeting me with her lovely makeupless smile. I love how smells take you back to the people you can't see in real life anymore. And how they are still kind of with you if you stop and take notice in those moments.
Breakfast can wait, but the quiet can't. I sit in my favorite spot and turn the light on next to me. Pulling out my books and my journal and a pen. I take sips of my coffee and read some. Sometimes I pray or cry. Or I just sit and allow myself just to be.
The last couple of years have grown me to realize my need to meet with God in the stillness before the rest of the day comes at me and hits me with full force. And maybe it only lasts for half an hour before my boy awakes or before I head off to work, but it's just enough time. It's enough time to get me through the day where I have to answer a toddler's 10,000 questions and have to pay bills and wait in line at the store or reconcile bank accounts at work. It's enough to nourish the parts of my soul that need something deeper, something more.Maybe after all these years, I've become something I never thought I would become.
A morning person.