I begin each morning
with the
same sweep
of the
arm, drawing back
the curtains
to let
the light
in,
even if
it’s just a sliver
of the
sunrise, winking, blinking,
rubbing its
own crusty, sleepy eyes,
even if
the clouds are dark
and looming,
gloomy and pouty
and promising
rain,
because even
if the daylight
is cloaked
and shrouded,
a somber
monk appearing
for
morning vespers,
it is
still enough—
the light
of day is still enough
to fight
back against the night,
to drive
the shadows away,
to open
the window to my soul
and air
out all the troubles of yesterday,
allowing
them to flit and flutter
and fly up
and out, along with the night.
And so I
pull back the curtain
to the
back door to check
on the
robin’s nest—she has been
gone for
days and I know
how nature
works, but still
I hope,
and in that moment
of hope,
with the house finches singing
their joyful
hymn—yes it’s a new day,
a new
morning, a new dawn—
in that
moment, a deer steps out
hoof by
hoof by hoof by hoof
onto my
back patio.
The cat
has wrapped himself around
my ankles
and I call to him,
“Look,
look, look,” because I want to—
I need
to—I have to share this second,
this breath,
this wonder with someone
as the adrenaline
pours into me
and then
out, surging through my fingertips.
Every
part of me tingles.
“Look,”
I say.
And the
cat does.
He
chirps, he chirrups,
he chortles
and the deer
turns her
head to me,
and suddenly
all three
of us
are frozen,
unable to
move.
She is
not ten feet away,
only the
window separating us,
but she
perceives me,
watches me,
unblinking.
Yes,
time can stand still.
Oh yes,
it can and it does,
and in
that moment,
in that
space between breaths
when all
things are possible
and visible
and knowable,
in that
moment,
I am
Moses
watching
the glory
and the
goodness of God
pass me
by.
And I am
alive.
I am
wholly alive,
in a
holy time that did
not exist
just a second ago,
before I
dared to let the light in.
Where
will you catch a glimpse
of God’s
glory today?
Amen.
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