One advantage to being a parent is the often unplanned early rising. There is no more effective alarm than a persistent child.
This morning I woke not only to Baby J’s forceful crys (he has no snooze button!) but to something else. To the most perfect pink-purple, mottled-cloud, orange bordered sunrise.
The birds spoke soft harmonies through the cool morning air, and even the distant traffic seemed more like wind than motor.
I sat in my favourite chair by the window, the one with the wide back and soft squishy arms, what I call my ‘Grace Chair’, and breathed it in. Felt the air brush cool on skin.
Beside me Joey played content in his playpen. Even he – perhaps – settled by the sunrise.
Hanging on the hush.
The night had been, once more, broken. Child heads, child limbs, tossed and turned, hair stuck to foreheads like glue. Child lungs warbled. On nights like these I feel a little like a wardsman, roaming the narrow corridor trying to suppress the loud of their waking from waking one another.
But then this. The sunrise. The morning. Moments of wonder pealed back to reveal the Creator’s marvels. My Grace Chair embraced by the bay window becomes a front-row seat on glory.
Night loud and broken followed by morning quiet, with glory breaking through, helps me see what needs always to be seen. The ever-rising beauty.