Today's Five-Minute Friday prompt is RISE.
I wake up on the sofa, my eyes stuck to the back of my head, yellow light streaming over me through the east-facing windows despite the closed curtains. My skull aches as I remember the 4 AM surrender, passing the playful, biting baby to my husband before creeping to the living room to steal a bit of sleep. I'm already broken, and today hasn't begun yet.
It would be easier if getting up didn't mean an immediate plunge into the day...if there was a way to have a soft start, a few quiet moments, a cup of coffee...but I can already hear the rumblings of sibling rivalry down the hall. Ready or not, this day is happening.
Rise, take up your bed, and walk.
For twelve weeks, I waited in bed for the morning to come to me, waited for twins to grow big enough that they'd be safe if they were born. For twelve weeks, everything was still and silent during the day, an empty house with just me and my thoughts, lying there, waiting for something to happen. Twelve weeks, watching this same morning light highlight the walls and turn into noon's brilliance, afternoon with its slanting rays, evening's slow approach as night finally gobbled up the last bit of light...the longest days I can remember, followed by the longest, most anxious nights.
Twelve weeks- and then I got up, and life hasn't stopped since.
I peel myself off the sofa. There's work to do. The day is waiting, and the people in it need me. I serve them, just as I'd serve Christ...right after I thank Him for waking me. Every single new day is a gift, whether it washes over me gently or crashes down on my head. I stretch out my fingers and toes and taste the new day tentatively, like that first sip of morning coffee. Then I sit up, arrange the sofa cushions and fold the blankets, and thank God that I'm here, that He's here, that they're here- and that mornings follow nights, no matter how long the nights are.
For more Five-Minute Friday, head over to Kate's blog.