The mornings were always the hardest.
At night I would turn the timer on the television to go off after I was sound asleep. The bathroom light was left on just in case one, two, or three of the kids came in sometime in the night and crawled into the bed big enough for all of us.
I needed noise and I needed light.
The mornings were hardest because I woke up as the only responsible adult in their lives. There wasn’t another around any more, even for every other weekend visits or holidays traded. I hated to wake their little heads from a peaceful sleep to the reality of one parent. Hated it.
They slept content and tranquil. I didn’t want to be the one to mess it up.
I’m not sure how I got there - to the scripture He breathed to me that gave me so much comfort.
How I got to the promise that I did not have to be consumed in grief. Consumed in fear or loneliness. Consumed in the seeming finality of death.
Not only was I not to be consumed with those things, I was also supposed to rest in the promises of His mercy new every morning. Every morning. His promise to me--straight from His heart to my heart. And I believed Him.
I trusted Him when He told me I could. I believed His faithfulness was great.
Some mornings I knew I would need more than other days. It was there. For awhile I spoke His words back at Him as my bare feet touched the floor first thing every morning. As months passed I would just remind Him of His promise. I didn’t have to tell Him which promise, He knew what I was talking about.
We were that close.
As “You promised” came through my lips, I think He smiled. No, I know He smiled. I know He smiled because it brought Him joy that I trusted Him and I knew He and only He had what I needed. What the kids needed.
He was Father to the fatherless. He was strength to my weakness.
I learned so much from Him during that time. So grateful for that journey.
Now. Bring on the morning.