A Porch, a Breath and This Quiet Morning

Notice the cool air touching your skin right where you sit, and the firm ground holding you up this morning. Good morning, baby. In episode one hundred thirty, we talked about finding a quiet moment of real warmth and calm perspective; today we plant our feet directly inside this hour, right where the floor meets your shoes. The sun is only now thinking about coming up over South Memphis, the porch rail is damp with dew, and my coffee mug is still warm between my palms. You don't have to look ahead down the driveway or think about the telephone ringing later on.

You're here on the porch with me, and this morning is sitting quiet in your lap. Let your ribs expand out slow and easy, taking in whatever coolness the room has to offer. Fill the bottom of your lungs, then let that air spill back out into the room like water flowing over smooth river stone. Hmm-mm-mm… Draw that breath in again, deep and untroubled. Feel the chest rise without any strain, and when you release it, let every bit of yesterday's hurry blow on past you. There's nowhere else you're supposed to be right this second.

The air comes in, cool and steady; the air goes out, warm and kind. We don't have to rush the breath to make it work. It knows how to keep you company all on its own. Now let your shoulders drop three inches down away from your ears. We spend all day hiking them up toward our chins like we're carrying grocery sacks in the rain. Let them fall. Uncurl your fingers in your lap until your palms feel open and loose, like you dropped a heavy set of keys you were tired of clutching. Let your jaw unclamp, loosen the little muscles right behind your eyes, and let the back of your neck settle back against the headrest or the morning air.

If you're a parent packing school bags, or a worker facing a desk stacked high with papers, here's what that means for you: you don't have to solve noon while your breakfast is still on the stove. Years ago in our choir loft at church, little Clara would freeze up before her solo, clutching her binder till her knuckles turned gray. I'd lean over the piano and tell her, honey, the bench is already holding your weight. Stop trying to hold the bench up. Let the wood under you carry the load. You're allowed to exist right now without fixing a single thing in the world.

Isaiah thirty verse fifteen says, in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength. Sit with that a minute, baby. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength. Notice the word isn't hurry, and the word isn't getting everything done before noon. The strength is already sitting right there underneath the noise, waiting on you to stop running past it. We spend half our lives wanting to be somewhere else, or wishing we were someone who handles things better, cleaner, faster. But grace doesn't meet the imaginary version of you that did everything right yesterday.

Grace meets the real one sitting right here in this chair, worn out or worried, with cold coffee on the table and laundry waiting in the basket. Inhabit this minute completely. It belongs to you, and it's enough. Hmm-mm-mm… There's a quiet power that lives inside an unfinished day. Take one more slow breath, feeling your feet resting flat against the floorboards. When you stand up from this quiet space and turn the doorknob, carry that stillness right in your pocket. You don't have to conquer the whole afternoon; you only have to walk through the minute right in front of you with an open heart.

Go on, now, and let the day meet you kind.