Summer Mornings

I don't set an alarm; I love to be up early but it is especially delightful to wake up to the brightening of the sky and the chattering of the birds instead of the beeping of my alarm clock. I lie in bed and check the sky to see if it is cloudy or clear, and watch the sun bathe the top of Sisi Ridge, across the valley from me. A waterfall rushes down a deep crevice in the steep side of the ridge, directly across from my bedroom windows. The screen door squeaks and thumps shut as Mark heads out to feed the chickens or Monica goes to the cold room to get breakfast makings. Red house finches land on the radio antennae wire that runs in front of my window, cocking their heads at me, still in bed, and flitting away.

I throw off my covers and slide my bare feet to the floor. My running clothes hang on a peg, easy to grab and pull on. I head to the door and pull on my running shoes, lacing them up snug. I throw my hair into a ponytail and am ready to go. Under the clothesline and through the wet grass, through the gate that hangs open, across the plank that bridges the tiny pelton wheel runoff stream, past John's tent in the woods, down a little hill and under low hanging tree branches where the Grosbeaks love to congregate, and then I am in the field. I tromp along the edge, tall plantain seed heads whacking my ankles. The buckwheat is flowering now, and the path is hard packed and barren from horseback riders daily making their way to the barn and back. I think of the seed that is sown along the path, and its small chance of fruitful survival. I reach the corral, usually empty because Bethany has already let the horses into the pasture for their morning feeding. When I reach the corner of the empty barn, my warm-up walk is over and I break into a run. I jog past Bemoo's corral, and she watches me, MOOOOOing impatiently when I go on without feeding her. At the corner of the dirt driveway, I turn onto a little path that cuts through to the road. As I feel the crunch of the gravel, I begin to hit my stride. The air is cool, and there is a barely perceptible breeze that almost gives me goosebumps -- I am not warmed up yet. The sky is so pale it is white, but I can tell it's going to be blue once the sun paints it. The mountains, the trees, are all standing up straight, stretching towards the coming sun. I push to get up the first hill, knowing that once I arrive at the top my legs and lungs will have adjusted to running and be ready for the rest of the journey.

And that's when my mind goes free, too. Sometimes I harness it to quote Scripture, other mornings I just let it be. I sing in my head, pounding the lyrics into my heart as I pound up the road. I pray for my family and my friends and coworkers and whatever comes to mind. I praise God for the day and lay before Him the things on my heart. He speaks to me. In the rush of the river I hear His promise to give peace to those who pursue His ways. In the golden gleam of sun on the clouds I hear his declaration of His own glory and radiance; I remember that He is the true, the only light. In the carefree tumble of a bear cub from a tree trunk I hear his promise to care for the sparrows, and for his own children. As I take the time to listen, He reminds me how temporary are the decisions and responsibilities that sometimes crowd my mind -- how much meat to cook for dinner, which recipes to try, how to speak words of correction or re-direction to my crew. He redirects the affections of my heart, so easily set on self or earthly desires, and fills me with new love for Himself.

I reach High Bridge, tramp across the bridge and back, and run back down the gravel road, reveling in the blueing of the sky and the pumping of healthy legs and heart. By the time I sprint past Bemoo and walk back along the edge of the field, I am warm and wide awake and eager for the day ahead, and for how the Maker of my heart will use me in it.