It’s 6:57 a.m. and there's a trace of pink to the western sky. Through an open window I listen to the rolling thunder of waves that lie out beyond the sand dunes. The earth shakes itself awake. The Lord has brought me his new day, for which I murmur my thanks.
There is promise in these moments, and an assurance that I’m not here alone or in need. Words, like agates on the beach, wait to be picked up and brushed of sand. A string of words turns magically into a sentence, and from that comes meaning. The dim light of dawn broadens into morning.