The Weight of Morning

There is a particular grace in the way morning arrives whether or not you are ready for it. It does not ask permission. It does not check whether you have resolved last night's sorrow or settled yesterday's confusion. It simply arrives — pale light through curtains, birds beginning their noise, the world resuming its indifference to your unfinished interior work.

I used to resent this. The cheerfulness of morning felt like an accusation against whatever grief I was carrying. But I have come to see it differently. Morning is not indifference — it is mercy. The day does not require you to carry yesterday into it. You are permitted to set it down at the threshold and walk in with empty hands.

His mercies are new every morning. Not recycled. Not the same ones conserved and carried over. New. As if God makes fresh mercy the way the sun makes fresh light — not from a stockpile, but from His own nature, which cannot help producing it.

This morning I am beginning again. I do not know what I am beginning. Only that the beginning is offered and that grace is sufficient for whatever the day holds.