The Kitchen Table

"The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." — Lamentations 3:22-23

The coffee is on and the house is dark.

This is not unusual. I have been getting up at this hour for so long that my body does it without asking me. Five-thirty, sometimes a few minutes earlier if the last stretch of sleep has already decided to leave. I do not fight it anymore. I used to, when I was younger and thought sleep was something I could argue with. Now I get up. The dark is good company when you let it be.

The mug is the same one it always is. Cream-colored, chipped on the rim, Earl’s gift from a year I can no longer place exactly. I have others in the cupboard. I use this one. I could not tell you why, except that the morning has its shape and this mug is part of the shape, and to change it would be to start a different morning, and I am not interested in a different morning.

The Bible is open on the table. I left it on the Psalms yesterday and I have not moved it. I will read a little further this morning and stop where the stopping feels right, and tomorrow I will pick it up from there. It is not a program. It is more like a walk. You go until the going feels done, and then you turn around.

The house is quiet in a way that took me years to get used to. Earl was up before me every morning, out to the barn before the light, and the sounds of his going were how I knew the day had started. His boots on the step. The screen door. Seven years this summer. The quiet has become its own kind of company since then. I do not understand this. I am only telling you what happened.

Biscuit is on the rug in the next room. I can hear him breathing. He is getting old, which I try not to think about, which means I think about it most mornings while I am sitting here pretending I am not.

The cardinal is at the feeder already, before the other birds. He comes every morning. I have not named him. Earl would have named him. I have left that undone on purpose, though I could not explain the purpose if you pressed me.

Outside the kitchen window the sky is turning. Not light yet, not exactly, but the dark has a blue edge to it that means the light is coming. I have sat at this table on mornings when I had nothing and the morning came anyway, and the coffee was hot, and the dog was breathing in the other room, and that was enough.

I have come to believe that enough is not a small thing. I think it might be the whole thing.

Lord, let this morning be enough.

If you would like Ruby in your inbox every morning, the newsletter is free.