When I’m boiled down to sleepiness and early morning dark, some of my less endearing qualities slip out and I snap things like “Don’t touch me.” Because there’s something overwhelming about touch and sweet whispers when I’m concentrating on hauling my sorry butt outta bed, and I forget how to relax and consider things in the spirit in which they were given until about seven thirty.
Not five, or four forty-five, or five fifteen.
I always regret it, though.
I say prayers begging for grace by evening, sometimes, but I forget about the morning when I can start our day kindly or rudely…and it’s extra discouraging to realize that most of the town isn’t awake yet but I’ve already failed miserably. His grace is sufficient for me? As in, 24-7? Every second, every breath, His grace sustains my life and I act like waking up is some horrible imposition. I forget perspective, when it’s this early in the morning. I only have my theology right when I’m alright, well-rested and happy and comfortable. Something tells me this has to change, that showing the love of Christ probably won’t be convenient, most of the time. And that it starts the minute I wake, facing the choice to love or hurt the person next to me.