Claim Joy

Wake slowly to the new day. Otherwise, risk joy.

These are the words I heard this morning after waking up to dimmed house lights, quiet music, a baby boy, a husband at work in the kitchen, and a hot shower. 

Wake slowly.

Yes, do. Ease in-to-day.

Most mornings, I sleep until the last possible minute, until the baby is squawking, the girls are tugging on me to make breakfast, and I am squinting in the dark, my brain running ahead of my body, trying to process the disturbing of peace. This method of day-start is not working. I get grouchy fast.

Wake slowly. Or risk joy.

When we are little, we open our eyes to a new day and invite it in without hesitation.  The gentle thump of small feet meeting the floor each morning is a sound I both invite and dread.  Invite because it is always new--new day for little souls excited to greet it.  I love that. I love their enthusiasm. Dread because I am not ready to help these souls on their way.

Day bursting across my adult consciousness does not bring the same joyfest it does for my little ones.  Day bursting brings yesterday's burdens, unmitigated and unharnessed.  Day bursting brings fear and anxiety.

Wake slowly and you have time, time to let the burdens in without letting them overwhelm, time to exit the landscape of dreaming and enter the landscape of mothering three small children.  Time enough to remember to give thanks.  Time enough to remember to pray. Time enough to remember to trust. Time enough to remember to laugh, to hug, to comfort. Time enough to delay desire, deny self, to get up, and to serve.

If I claim the first moments of waking for myself, for contemplation, for prayer, for silence, then I have more moments to give away to my children.

Wake slowly. Claim joy.