Each morning I rise before dawn.
The holy quiet.
I get my coffee and rest with the Ancient Word.
Before breakfast.
Before I break my fast.
My soul devours the comforting words.
Works that challenge, inspire and speak truth.
My spirit is refreshed and hopefully ready for whatever the day may hold.
Each day a pilgrimage.
Coffee, the Ancient Word.
All before the house begins to stir.
Before the tyranny of the urgent pulls.
I stand before the stove.
What to make?
Breakfast.
Is it blazing hot?
Or freezing cold?
How many are here?
I often have to stop and think. . .
Yogurt, granola and fruit for the hot, steamy days.
Bowls of cereal with fresh raw milk.
Popovers and Oatmeal for those bitter cold mornings.
Other days, I stir and mix pancakes or French Toast for breakfast.
Wednesdays are often for Waffles.
Breakfast.
We gather around the farmhouse table.
Our coffee buddy joins us.
The farm boy arrives.
Sometimes we make 2-3 pots of coffee.
There’s discussion about the previous evening’s news.
The weather is checked a few times.
The day is planned.
Soon all scatter to their respective jobs.
Breakfast is over.
I take my time cleaning the kitchen.
These moments are holy.
They are not always easy.
My farm boy and I often clash.
I am harsh and too quick to answer my farmer.
I thank God for them.
My farmer.
My farm boy.
I pour another cup of coffee and sit down with the days Agenda.
There is book work and baking.
There is always something to do.
And there will always be interruptions.
There will always be a mess.
I realize I am content.
It’s been a long time since I have experienced that.
I decide to make muffins.
mountain
There are blueberries still in the freezer.
Memories of sunshine and the warmth.
The sweetness of those berries still lingers. . .
The last of the previous summer’s bounty.
I get up from the table.
I take my coffee with me.
Breakfast.
An important part of the day for so many reasons.
