He wakes up. Slowly.
He’s groggy. He gulps down his mason jar of water that sat on his desk all night.
He shuffles into the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face to help him feel alive.
The coffee is already brewed. He’s thankful that the preparation is part of the nighttime routine.
He pours a cup. Black.
In only briefs, he steps out onto the front porch, into the warm spring morning. It’s acceptable here, the briefs. If anyone sees, they don’t mind. He doesn’t either. He’s comfortable, and really only half awake anyways.
What’s the purpose of today? Is anything going to be special? What’s on the list?
He goes through his plan for the day, scouring his hopes and dreams, trying to fit them into the equation of a normal day.
Time alone, in his favorite book, along with a pen and paper are next on the agenda.
The house is silent, for the most part. He can hear birds flirting with each other and dogs excited to hear one another’s voices.
Nothing is quite like it.
He’s reminded that, although he questions the purpose of his day and what may or may not come to pass, he isn’t alone.
In the quiet, in the stillness, in his briefs and with his black coffee, he’s reminded that God calls Himself Immanuel.
Not only is that comforting, but it’s also empowering. Refreshing. Motivating.
Slow goes the morning routine, and quiet.
Questions question questions. Doubts doubt doubts. Beliefs believe beliefs.
His stress is real. His worry is present. But his hope is loudest.
Nothing is louder in that stillness than hope.
And nothing tastes better than that black coffee.