Morning feels like Sunshine and pale gold

But mostly white --

White light

White bedspread

White curtains

White walls.

Morning feels like purity, like unstained.

It feels like soft breath 

And soft footsteps

And the soft steeping of tea.

It feels like sleepy eyes

And sleepy hair

That somehow looks better now than when you fixed it yesterday.

It feels like grace enough

To go back to sleep.

Morning feels like books.

Like CS Lewis with his deep, simple profundity.

Like Emily Freeman and the million little ways God is with us here and now.

Like Tolkien and his adventure.

Yes, morning feels like Tolkien to me,

With his golden woods

And white towers

And dark nights and darker days,

With his stars -- always the stars.

Mornings are the feeling of the leatherbound book in my hand,

Turning the tissue-paper pages

That sound like rain.

It feels like the Psalms and 

Isaiah and the

Adventures of Acts.

It feels like people who are just like me

And a God who loved them --

And the God Who loves me

Enough to wake me

And reassure me

That He will be enough for me.

Morning feels like a pencil in my hand

And the computer under my fingertips.

It feels like it's time to write something.

It feels like hope and plans for the day.

It feels like practicing in my mind.

It feels like vocalizing in the shower,

All the while trying not to wake my roommates,

But hoping the water-sounds cover my high notes.

It feels like singing Strauss as I dry my hair.

Morning feels like dreaming.

Morning feels like

Hope and peace.

It feels like whispers between me and God.

It feels like just OUR time,

That no one can disturb.

Morning is sacred.

It's the time that I am reassured,

Prepared to


Go out into my day,

Step into a practice room,

Walk into a classroom and a world

Where nothing is peaceful

And the enemy seeks to rain fire on my head

And heart

And faith.

But He has prepared me in the morning:

In the time I whisper to Him and say

I really want to practice well today or

I really want to see Your smallest movement in my life.

It is in the whispers and the silence

And the white-gold light

(Like the kind I imagine must shine in Minas Tirith)

That He has readied me

And reminded me that He is not only

In the morning.

He is here.

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