Blessed By Wounds

The first frost of the season came on a Friday morning in early October. Living on the third floor of our apartment building means that it is markedly warmer on our floor than the rest of the building, and for that reason we hadn’t yet turning the heat on. The chill was slight, but enough that its accompanying us in our morning routine made difference.

In some ways I still consider myself a morning person. There are few things more satisfying to me than waking up with the sun, sipping a still-hot cup of coffee, and settling in with prayer in the silence of the house before anyone else has risen. If I could assure myself this ideal every morning, then yes, I would not hesitate to call myself a morning person. However, as any mom out there reading knows intimately, this is a true rarity. As an introvert, those few moments of solitary silence each morning are not just some pleasantry, they are a matter of necessity. Again, as any mom knows intimately, 5 AM is not now, nor ever has been, a reasonable time for the under 5 set to begin their day.

And yet there they were. Before me in the still of the early morning, incapable of making a request sans whining, in a way notorious to over-tired three-year-olds. The entire morning progressed along from there marked by familiar rounds of tossing cereal at the twins, dragging the 9 year old from bed by his feet, ordering children of all ages to change their underwear and pleading that they, “brush your teeth for the love of all the is Holy.”

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