I fought hard for my quiet time today. I fought a baby that wouldn’t go back to sleep, a toddler who heard her brother and wanted to play, the urge to go back to my big comfy bed with my warm and good smelling husband, the self pity of how long it’s been since I’ve slept for more than four uninterrupted hours in a row, my own demons (you don’t want to know their names) my own negative self-talk and countless other things on my list of seemingly infinite obstacles. It was all I could do to put my feet on the ground…
But, oh, the quiet.
I can still hear it. I can still feel it. The way it slows my heart rate, and dampens the flames beneath my boiling blood. I could cry, if I’m not careful, just thinking of how much I cherish that time.
I set my coffee maker before bed. (no matter how much I try to muffle it, the sound of coffee beans grinding is like a giant bucket of ice water on a toddler’s half-sleeping face in the morning and extinguishes all hope of drinking said coffee in silence) I sneak out of my room, I turn on a faint yellow light, and when I get my coffee, Bible, Journal and pen, I exhale. The only way to describe that breathe is to call it thorough. I thoroughly exhale, releasing the oxygen and tension from any hidden place in my blood and let it all dissipate in that quiet.
Oh, the quiet.
I read, I wonder, and then I journal. It’s nothing poetic. Really. It’s more of a continuing conversation with God. If you do it too, you know what I mean. It’s just casual and comfortable as talking to your closest friend. I’m embarrassed about how silly and simple my entries are at times, but sometimes, I just need my petty thoughts to be heard. I just need to vent a little, to dream a little, to be afraid, to be hurt, to be tired. I get it all out and then I gain some perspective as I thank Him for all the good. Even if I have to search for it, there is always good. I could go all day, journaling and reading and basking in that warmth. Inhaling, fresh, rich, and peaceful air.
Sometimes I barely squeak out a few disconnected sentences before I have to “clock-in” for the morning, but out of discipline, I at least try.
Then there are mornings like this one. Where I fight hard for the quiet, and it is so quenching, and so worth the battle. It’s like a secret I keep. I look back on that time in the chaotic moments and draw peace from it. I look forward to the next chance I get. It’s a feeling worth far more than 15-20 minutes of half-sleep.
Where is your quiet? Is it your feet pounding out your thoughts on the pavement? Is it your fingers loosing themselves on the piano keys? Is it explored through paint and canvas? Whatever it is, fight hard for it. You’re worth the fight.