It is early morning.
I haven’t been up this early in a long time–over a year.
As I quietly tap out my thoughts, I realize just how much I’ve missed the delight of rising early to meet [come face to face with] [encounter] each new day.
I’ve missed the serendipity of early morning walks with my husband.
The smell of dewy jasmine where the bush at 6th Avenue and 14th Street pours forth her sweet perfume;
The through-an-open-window-everyday-at-five-thirty a.m. sound of someone pecking out their own story? on an old? manual typewriter;
The soft clinking of cups and silverware set before the couple who routinely sit poolside to start the day with breakfast and a smoke;
The myriad sounds of the old mockingbird that sits alone in a barren tree on thirteenth street singing everyone’s song but his own;
And I wonder who planted the seed that produces such savory sweetness….longing to exude my own sweet aroma and plant a few seeds myself.
And what enchanting story do the pages being methodically spun out on that typewriter tell….what parts of that story, good or bad, would touch the tender places in me.
And what are the plans and dreams and concerns of the sleepy-eyed couple who sit gazing out over the mist rising over the pool where warm dry air meets night’s cool moisture…can they see through the mist with clarity and purpose? Can they see their way through to the One Who can?
And I want to tell the mockingbird that he really doesn’t have to warble everyone else’s song and am rather sad that he never finds his own…because I know the bondage of that borrowed cadence…and am, myself, still learning the victorious notes and rhythm of the joyous song that my Creator has composed just for me.
And I remember why I love the wisdom of lessons that can only be learned in the early morning dawn of new beginnings.
And I want to return.