I’ve been waking up early.
Not as in six or seven o’clock early but as in three or four o’clock early. Today was no exception.
I’ve been surprisingly ok with this occurance. If it was summer, I would probably go for long walks through my neighborhood, basking in the sunrise glow long before humanity begins to stir, sitting on the dock by the pond watching it steam in the early greyness. But winter is still here, so I lie in bed with the magical warmth of my blankets wrapped around me, so aware of the temperature, the air pressure, the sounds of the house and the snow and the wind. So aware of God and spiritual presences. I pray. I pray for my wandering heart, my fiance’s heart, my friends scattered over the world.
It’s Holy Week. On Sunday Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey with crowds mobbing Him, throwing themselves at His feet, preparing to make Him king, Himself preparing to celebrate the Passover and then die for His cause of love and justice to offer salvation to the world.
This was my consuming thought yesterday–Jesus prayed for me. Believers have prayed for me for the last two thousand years. This not only makes me a significant part of history, it makes me part of a community that I can’t even comprehend. A worldwide, two thousand year old community of people who love. My morning mind has been filled with images of people throughout history and all over the world having the same mindset as myself and one day holding hands and singing with these people, getting to see them, and know them, and speak with them. Getting to love God with them. Hearing every different accent and every new song ever made in its own time. Seeing the eyes and hair and skin of every believer. Every one beaming with the honor of knowing God, of living with the life He gave, of now being in His presence.
We will truly be brothers and sisters. Home at last with our good Father.
I can’t wait.
These early mornings make me long for something more.