this summer, i did not need an early alarm.
every day, at 6:30 in the morning, like clockwork. i was sweetly, softly, pulled awake.
by a singsong. a melody unlike any other. a little falsetto followed by a short lived baritone. a songbird.
our bed is right beside a window. a big, old window that faces a meadow and a clothesline. blueberry bushes and apple trees.
and when the weather was just warm enough, little birds. i kept the blinds closed to keep out the blinding sun, so i never saw firsthand this delightful alternative to my timex, but it knew exactly, precisely, how much time i would need to wake up, prepare myself for the day, and head out in my honda in time for work.
i named him roger. i presumed him to be male, but in reality, it might have been a lovely lady bird.
yesterday morning, with hours left to sleep before church, my heating pad on a delicious full blast, and pablo curled at my toes, i heard a familiar, albeit all but forgotten chorus.
roger was back. the brief reprieve of warmth that came with the weekend was enough to draw him out of winter hiding and back to my windowsill.
they're calling for more snow in north carolina this weekend, and inevitably, roger will return to where he came from. storing up those sweet vibratos for springtime.
but at 6:30 on a sunday morning, i was reminded.
that every day brings new surprises. new beginnings. new blessings.
new chances to puff up our chests, look toward the heavens, and sing a song of joy toward a Creator who listens, and who always knew we'd come back. no matter how long we've been away.