Sunday Morning

I don't even know how it started. But I love Sunday mornings. I wake before I need to. On Sundays I make myself pancakes. I make my coffee strong and often drink it black, unless of course I've made it too strong. I sit at the dining room table, which on every other day hardly is used. Just me. House quiet. Sun coming, making its way up from the horizon, the world awaiting its arrival on these cold winter days to bring warmth, light, and awake. The shadows are long from the rays coming in through the window on my left. It streams through the trees, dissipating the frost where it lays. I see my own backyard; it becomes beauty. A bird alights from no where, a bird I've never seen nor can identify. There's two fluffy squirrels playing a game of tag in the neighboring fir- do you suppose they wake up that way? All this somehow makes me alive. Even though it's just me, here, sipping my coffee in an over-sized hoodie.

I've noticed. I've enjoyed the simple. On a Sunday morning.

This last week has brought about so many questions.

Maybe some that I'm not meant to answer.

But here on a Sunday morning, I realize that I'm not all that observant, but I was made to notice the things that matter. Enjoy the beauty from it. That my passions fill me up, but so do mornings like this. And I haven't said or done a thing. And I've been sitting here for an hour.

On Sunday mornings I somehow feel more myself. Maybe when you're heart if fully devoted to your kind Lord, you actually are more yourself. It's not the trying and the doing, it's the sitting and enjoying. Experiencing God in a way so natural. It won't be written about in books, but felt in your heart.

My thought on this Sunday morning is:   I want to touch His heart, like He has touched mine.