On some mornings, the sheets feel especially soft, the blankets wonderfully warm. Outside the kitchen window, the thermometer tells why,
But in the lilac, the wee birds, feathered balls plumped against the cold, are already gathered, waiting for seed. And the woodstove, too, wants feeding.
I pour a cup of hot coffee, add a dollop of cream, pull on my boots and gloves, and out I go. The birds flee, as if I have startled them from deep dreams. But the chickadees return as I sing to them, chirping their own little songs. And before I am even back in the house, the rest of the birds come, too.
The warmth from the stove’s glowing embers greets my face as I open its door and offer it a fresh supply of the maple branches I dragged down the hill last fall and cut to just the right size.
I sweep the bits of snow my boots tracked in, sip coffee, watch the birds through the window.
The rising sun is painting the trees with gold.
This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.
Yes. I will be glad and savor its joy.