my beginning and theirs

I can hear her little feet padding down the stairs, normally followed by the tippy-tap of a dog’s paws.

Wordlessly, she slides onto my lap, warm from sleep with glazed eyes and messy hair. She’s still small enough to be held, and this is the one time of day she’ll let me lean her back, cradling her in my arms like I did years ago before she didn’t know to fight me.

I’m an earlier riser and at our old house, I’d stay in bed, playing on my phone and killing time until the rest of the house woke up. But now, at our new house with more space, I can rise without alerting everyone and make my way somewhat-silently to the kitchen. I scoop the coffee grounds, fill the pot, and wait for the first few glorious smells to hit my nose.

I fill my cup, sit down at the dining room table, and open my Bible.

It’s quiet. I’m alone with my God. I’ve got hot coffee.

This is my starting place. My grounding. My safe return. My hopeful beginning.

I’m still trucking along on my year of reading the Bible from beginning to end. I’m about a week behind, the daily readings still signifying May when it’s now June. May was hard and defeating. May was ground-shifting and eye-opening. It’s not lost on me–the irony–that I’m still reading May’s stories even though it’s June. I’m still replaying conversations, heartbreak, and shock from May too. May probably won’t leave anytime soon even if I’ll soon move on from its pages.

On the wall in my dining room, a sign reads: “In the morning when I rise, give me Jesus.”

Yes, please. One million times.

I’m not sure how I got through May without Jesus.

At some point during my quiet time, a daughter of mine will wake up and wander down the stairs. She’ll climb into my lap, I’ll whisper “Good morning” and “I love you so much” into her ear. She won’t respond, but snuggle in tighter. I’ll rub her back, kiss her cheeks, positioning her so I can continue reading scripture as she slowly wakes up while being held by her mom.

She starts with me. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, when my daughters wake up, they find me. They rest in my arms, snuggle into my side as I’m sleeping, sit on my lap as I’m drinking coffee.

I am their grounding, their safe return, their beginning.

Since we moved, I’ve thought often of getting back into the routine of mornings spent at the gym. About rising at 5:30 and making the longer-than-before drive to the Planet Fitness in the neighboring town where I can work up a sweat while lifting weights and running on the treadmill.

But then I think about our mornings together. Jesus and I. The girls and I.

How I start my day with Him. How He steadies me for whatever will come and how I, in turn, steady my daughters.

Eventually, I’ll take a backseat to the mornings. They’ll grow and look for me less. They’ll (hopefully) begin to look for Jesus in their beginnings, in their waking, instead of their mother. This is bittersweet to acknowledge, even though it’s more sweet than anything.

I remember all the mornings I didn’t start with Jesus, and I feel sad for all I missed out on. All the encouragement. All the peace. All the wisdom. All the quiet. All the safety.

I have lost count of the times I’ve come with worry, brokenness, weariness, stress, confusion, or anger, and He’s answered me with exactly what I needed. If I show up, He will too.

Every single time.

I don’t know what people do without Jesus. That thought has come to my mind more times than I can count the past month. There were days in May I couldn’t get out of bed. There were days in May I couldn’t recognize my own reflection because my eyes were too swollen, my skin too lifeless and gray.

I have no doubt I’d still be there without Jesus.

I don’t know what people do without Jesus.

Here’s what is currently steadying me in the mornings: