Eyelids flutter, and we sense—more than we see—how differently light looks than when we fell exhausted into bed. Awareness jabs at everything—the too-hard pillow; the blanket thin against the chill; the shoulder sore from hours of unmoving. Awake—too soon; too late; too urgently. The undone stuff of yesterday grabs our first thoughts. Oh no! Not that! How much? How soon?
And in those fitful moments, the impulse to be grateful for our lives so easily departs—chased out by hot adrenaline. Should we—could we—offer thanks for grumpy children shepherded to school; for spouses facing drama at the office; for traffic ribbons of red taillights?
Yet waking up is still a grace, and drawing breath is still a gift. Everything we count as sameness and routine is proof that life still offers possibilities; that things don’t stay just as they were; that hope—and hopeful people—still endure.
Grace saves more than souls and minds—the planned, deliberate parts of us. Grace floods our zone with oxygen; with joys too small to write them down; with love as wordless as an infant’s fingers curled about our own. And gratitude—perhaps a prayer we’ve memorized; an easy sigh of heavenward contentment—gratitude equips us for the journey of these hours, this life, and on to life eternal.
“I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly” (John 10:10), Jesus says to all who put their mornings in His care.
Awake to life and love and grace.
And stay in it.
—Bill Knott