In the Morning
Give ear to my words, O Lord,
consider my sighing.
The psalter is pushed back a few feet from me on the bed, pale blue ribbon cut between Psalm 3 and Psalm 5. It’s Monday, I think. Lauds.
It’s the psalter for no better reason than my unwillingness to go back upstairs and get the whole book. It’s early, and still black in the hallway, and I’ve already stumbled into too many things because I didn’t turn on the lights. There are extra boys in my basement. I don’ t want to wake them on their last day of their break.
The psalter was handy there on the desk. And it’s pushed back on the bed because my old-people glasses are failing me these days. I blame the glasses, not my eyes. It appears I need the old-er-people glasses now. I can’t see the hand in front of my face. But I could see it a half block away. My glasses sit idle on top of my head most of the time, until I need them and can’t remember where they are.
In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice
in the morning I lay my requests before you
and wait in expectation.
All the house is silent. I hear the bed creak above me, blankets rustle in the room next to me where the sweaty adolescents line the floor. The space heater hums along because Spring is still a little edgy in the morning. The birds are subdued, not the usual chatter while they pour coffee and gossip over English muffins. I imagine it’s oatmeal this morning, and perhaps some tragic news of a neighbor crashing into the clear backboard of our basketball hoop in the driveway. They keep their voices to a hush.
I’m a few weeks into a new rhythm, about as old as that edgy Spring, pulling me from sleep in the earlier hours. Changes in the cadence can lose me in confusion while they heighten my awareness at the same time. So I’m several lines in before I hear my own voice, whispering into the silence.
But I, by your great mercy,
will come into your house;
in reverence will I bow down
toward your holy temple.
Lead me, O Lord, in your righteousness
because of my enemies –
make straight the path before me.
I keep reading aloud. The words sound like one long sigh.
The creaking and rustling become more frequent. And there’s enough gray light in my office that I know it’s overcast without pulling back the thin curtain. One small bird voice chirps into the emptiness, then hesitates.
There is no reply.
But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
let them ever sing for joy.
Psalm 5, my morning meditation It's a good day to read some David out loud. Photo: Resurrection Day sunrise