I slip out from between sheets and steal away to sink myself into the silent solitude of my study, counting myself blessed that I can do this. It’s 4:44 on 11/11/11. I wrap my fluffy robe warm around me, turn the light on dim and gentle, shuffle to my comfy chair. So grateful for the solitary stillness.

…But no. It’s not to be.

The rooster, first. He starts a-cockle-doodle-doing. And goes on and on and on. Like machine gun rattle. I think: Well, at least the closed coop windows—and mine—now muffle his exhuberance. But his insistent repetition, repetition, repetition starts to grate on the interior of my bones. I switch from soft serenity to stiffened stress!

At last, he stops! Or, pauses? I sit stiff, anticipating encore possibilities.

Then I remember: Think of it as a refrain of hallelujahs… (Though I’d rather he’d refrain!)

Now, the loud-in-darkness rattle of iron-and-porcelain doorknob, loose within its casing down the hall, penetrates my closed “silent study” door. Footsteps, nearing, and Husband’s voice, ring loud and merry, in the still-night air, “Good Friday morning!”

He never starts a day with such loud greeting. (Except today he does!) I return a mumbled “Morning,” sitting grim in dimness, simply waiting, while the hall’s bright light floods through the gap twixt door and floor, wide because the carpet’s gone. A surprising glare. Then the running and the flushing of the water, and the rooster crows again.

A door is squealing open (bathroom). Shoe-clad feet, descending stairs, fade downward. I sigh hope at opportunity renewed, to read and pray and meditate—sweet peace!  I start to write my morning thanks, while waiting for the glare beneath the door to die. But—for perhaps the first time ever—thrifty husband leaves it lit! And the cock crows yet again.

Now there’s rattling beneath me. Pots, pans, or some such thing. “I give up!” I think, and fling my journal leftward, onto the stack of binders piled upon the table there, precarious stack. An avalanche goes clattering down all over wooden floorboards. That really cooks it!

All I wanted was to sink myself into the silence, to commune with God, to give Him thanks…

Truth, nasty truth, dawns. Isn’t thanks supposed to be for the One thanked? And for whom did I want that time and quiet? Realization, on this “It’s-not-about-me” day: My day-start quiet time is not about me! Or at least it’s not supposed to be. Not if its major purpose is to offer up a grateful heart and words of praise to the Giver of all good things—like chickens and roosters (so there can be more baby chicks), and husbands that greet you merry before dawn’s light, and go off to happily brew the coffee, and…

Let’s try this again…


Beholding Glory