If you’re mornings are anything like mine, they look something like this:

Alarm goes off; hit snooze; feel guilty for hitting snooze; peel yourself out of bed; make coffee in a quiet house; savor first sip of coffee in a quiet house; smell of coffee wakes children up; kiss them good morning; stare blankly into space until caffeine takes effect; caffeine kicks in just in time to feebly attempt to keep brothers’ hands and feet off each other in the living room; attempts fail; brothers fight over blanket; brothers fight over couch space; brothers fight over who can breathe who’s air; use “getting the paper” as an excuse to escape the noise; walk slowly down driveway to get paper; body aches remind you how difficult it is getting older; open front door only to hear more fighting; send children to their rooms under the guise of “getting dressed for school”; sip lukewarm coffee in quiet house while reading the headlines; marvel at the miracle of how fast kids can get dressed in the morning when you’re not running late; wish it could have taken a bit longer; retreat to shower; hear fighting in the hallway; open shower door to sentence children back to rooms until further notice; enjoy a rushed shower; dry off, look at clock, wonder how it can possibly be this late; call children out of rooms to pack lunches; fighting resumes; remind children to eat breakfast; children claim they’re not hungry; authority challenged, mild parental annoyance ensues; scurry out door; strap in; remember that you left your lunch on the kitchen counter; tell children you’ll be right back; return only to witness more fighting; restore order; strap back in; put car in reverse; child remembers he forgot homework in his room; momentarily consider the meaning of “natural consequences”; return to compassion; put car in park; give child house keys; remind him to lock the door behind him only if house keys are in hand; harbor complaints from other brothers as to why they have to wait for the forgetful one; remind them that they have been forgetful too; child returns, keys in hand, assuring that he locked the door; weigh time-benefit of checking door; shrug shoulders, trusting child; back out of driveway; hit extra traffic at school now that you’re running late; say a quick before-school prayer with the boys; drop them off; smile at how cute they look with their backpacks on as they scurry away; wait for crossing guard; continue to wait for crossing guard; slowly cross intersection only to hit more school traffic; finally break free from the madness; get into quiet office at work; brew more coffee; collapse in chair, wondering how the morning got that kind of a start; take a few deep breaths; set the day’s task list; breathe; enjoy fleeting moments of silence; brace for the day ahead; and…charge!

What’s funny about this is that we sing a song in church with the lyrics: “Joy comes in the morning”.

I might beg to differ…

Yet the Bible says that God’s mercies are new every morning.  But if I’m honest, it doesn’t often feel that way.  It feels more like mornings are something to survive, something to pass through in order to get to the good stuff.

But if I take time to consider those mornings that aren’t pure chaos, those times where I can make time to notice the sunrise, I might be able to make a little sense out of the whole thing.

I think we would all agree that there is something rather magical about a sunrise.  If I’m honest, I think I prefer them over sunsets (and I love sunsets…)

There is beauty in the promise that each day is an unmarked canvas – that we have a certain measure of artistic license in this thing we call life; that we are meant to create, to live good stories, and to offer our character and our strength to the world.

And if I’m honest, I believe that so much more in the morning.  By sundown, I can often feel pretty beat up by the day’s events.  I’m more likely to retreat in the evenings, holing up away from the world, rather than offering myself to it.

But the morning.  That seems to hold promise.  Promise that whatever happened the day before is behind me – mess-ups, disasters, failures.  Even successes get the opportunity to build momentum afresh in the morning.

And so I wrestle.  Each and every day.

Because I want to live that great story, that calling to make an impact in my family and in my community, and I can feel completely bulldozed by life sometimes.  Even in the mornings.

And so that’s where I have to be intentional about taking some time, any time possible, each and every day to reset and ground myself in something a little more dependable than my own psyche.  Something that isn’t as fickle as my emotions or my fragile morning bubble.

Something Infinite.

And so I cling to that promise, that mercies do exist anew each morning.  And if I’m lucky enough, I just might be afforded a glimpse of them if I look intently – whether gazing at the clouds, looking to the mountains, or just pausing at my desk to breathe deeply before the madness of the day ensues…