I'm an early riser: this morning, 3:30.
When I awake, that's it.
My mind hums with energy.
Yet, I think: I should sleep a little longer.
But to no avail.
Books to read demand my presence.
So, I'm up, with cheer.
Some pills and a shave.
Teeth brushed ... I start the day.
Into the kitchen.
A cuppa via yesterday's brew heated in the micro.
Some walking devotions:
"Hail Mary full of Grace ..."
"I believe in God the Father Almighty ..."
"Our Father who art in heaven ..."
"Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open ..."
And then my 40 days of prayer journal.
Each name or need announced aloud, or silently.
The refrain: "Jesus my LORD."
And the date duly noted.
I pray for friends, near and far.
Sometimes strangers and ideas and darker things.
Some prayers are given 80 days.
Or 120,
Or the days of my life, as long as I should live.
Prayer is fitting for a season, as it goes.
The crisis passes; the need is met.
The journal page is lifted out of its three-ring binder.
And put away in the binder pocket.
And only later, tossed out.
Some pages are full with tiny columns of dates.
And occasional comments.
Ceaseless prayer.
As love never ends.
Then some coffee prepped for D.
When she awakens, out to the kitchen she wanders.
"Good Morning Dear Friend," I might say.
Or some other endearment, of a very long list.
Mostly sweet and some pretty silly.
She smiles and flips the switch.
I'll drink what's left tomorrow.
