I Rise Early

an ode to quiet wonder and joyful rest

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.”  (Psalm 90:14 )

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I rise early to rest.

Before the sun wakes up, before my children need me, before the piles of laundry start talking; their rumpled peaks and grass-stained valleys a dusty documentary of free range childhood.

At 5:45 the house is still quiet and my eyes are still tired. But my mind is all done sleeping.¹  I pad softly toward the kitchen on autopilot: thank goodness for programmable coffee pots. I fill my favorite cup and drizzle in two second's worth of cream. That first earthy inhalation stands second to none. 

This year Wisconsin weather seems to have lost the memo that it’s autumn. Temperatures have lingered in the 80s, even though the sumac is catching fire, and the robins have been leaving in droves for their condos down south.

The loft where I usually sit with God feels uncomfortably warm, so I head out back to a porch still dark. (Though not before pulling on a pair of Gen Z crew socks, in hopes of  discouraging the few mosquitoes still busy with pre-dawn vampirical pursuits.²)

The dark air on my face is lukewarm—moist and still—more summertime than sweater weather. On a whim, I run back inside and rummage through the buffet for a candlestick and half-used taper. I plunk it on the picnic table and it flickers to life.  This little light of mine. 

With this addition I feel precisely like Jane Austen, my little vanilla circle of candlelight just barely enough to write by. Its incandescent glow casts shadows both terribly romantic and highly impractical.

I pick up my pen, wrist sticking a little to the damp paper underneath. I settle in to whisper prayers, drink coffee, and listen to the dark—staring out towards the faded perennials and glowing string-lights along the tree line. 

The quiet out here really isn’t.

The cricket orchestra hums beneath the barred owls concerto—his haunting solo thrilling me to my sock-covered tiptoes. Every so often, a soft thud near the walnut tree signals another green sphere has flung itself free onto the hard ground below, like a hundred tiny toddlers pitching a seasonal fit. Later today, small girls will pick them up by the pail full: my own little forest creatures preparing for the long winter ahead.

The east edge of the world is beginning to turn from deep charcoal to dusty half-dawn. By this point I don’t really need light from the candle—but I keep it burning all the same. Because it’s beautiful. Everyday beauty serves a divine purpose too.

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The calm air splinters as Red Squirrel chatters, prodding her children out of bed and to the work of gathering walnuts. She fusses and scolds; and just like that, the drama of north woods dawn is underway. 

Blue Jay roars to life—yelling at anyone who will or won’t listen—Sir Cardinal immediately claps back. The limpid yellow line just above the horizon seems to get Brown Thrasher revved up,  and apparently Eastern Towhee is ready to rumble as well. (This is how you know you are nearly 40.  You become overly invested in the goings-on of wild birds.)

The air around me is now painted with an apricot wash, and according to my wrist it is nearly seven o’clock. Nature looks spectacular out here in this golden light. The heavens sing out a declaration of glory—and in this moment I would be wholly unfazed to hear the sound of trees clapping too. 

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In his hand is the life of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind. (Job 12:10)

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I blow out my candle with a reluctant exhale. Luxuriate in the smell of translucent cursive that spirals across the table and out into the morning. Like watching Ecclesiastes in motion.³

A man-cub makes his appearance at my elbow, an early riser after my own heart.  He stands solemn and blinking in that sweet dopey way while we discuss childish matters of import: the possibility of chocolate chip pancakes and what to pack for school lunch.

I check the sky one final time before heading inside. It has settled into a clear aching blue, and I grin like a fool. Are simple sunbeams always so laced with hope?  Somehow this sacred hour of solitude has reoriented the eyes of my heart to 20/20 vision.

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Spiritual rest is different from self-care. It is marked by self-denial; requiring that we cease activity for the purpose of remembering God’s abundant provision.

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I push through the screen door and back into the kitchen—where lunchboxes lie open and bananas sit attracting fruit flies and a dishwasher stands waiting to be emptied with its packed usefulness of shiny plates and so many clinking cups. 

I whisper amen as I roll out the rack. Filled up to the brim by new morning mercies.

Fully satisfied with the clear cool glass of His astonishing love.

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The essay above is the result of a recent prompt from the writing group I participate in. We were tasked with using the Rico method in the process of drafting our submission. If any of you are interested, I may write more about this method in the weeks ahead. Teachers: I think your students could enjoy this technique as well.

Edited to add: A reader mentioned that Rico may have New Age connections. Although the prompt our group utilized did not contain this (it was purely academic) it would be better put to say we used “mind mapping” —which simply involves writing down a central theme and thinking of new and related ideas which radiate out from the centre, creating a diagram.

1. And sinuses have begun their autumn rebellion against ragweed and harvest dust.

2. According to mosquitoes, my ankles have three Michelin stars.

3. The Hebrew word “hevel” is referenced 38 times in the book of Ecclesiastes. It is often translated “vanity” or “meaningless” in our English Bibles—but literally it means “smoke” or “vapor.” Fleeting. It’s worth pondering this in light of Proverbs 31:30!