Mornings by Candace Echols

The sun has only thought about rising.
Our house is filled with sleeping people I love.
I stretch long, slip out from under the covers, and
float
sock-footed, over the hardwoods to muffle the creaks and cracks.
Coffee dripping into my cup is a ritual
just for me.
Rookie turns over in his bed and snuffles.
I curl up on the east-facing sofa—
sink into the old loved couch.

And wait.

First light breaks and the candle flickers,
my Bible on my lap.
My Maker, who is quietly, gently lighting the sky whispers to me.
Footsteps above awaken me
to love and delight,
to work and responsibility.
I don’t want to leave, but
He goes with me from this sacred space, this couch and coffee, into the day—
into biscuits and baths, lunches and laundry, errands and everything.
The sun is in the sky.

The Son is risen.