Before the Morning
What does it mean to see the morning?
Because I have to tell you, I’ve been deathly afraid of the morning. Sometimes, late at night, thoughts of the morning scare me the most.
All the monsters squirming round my mind, they tell me haunting things about morning. They say it’s darker there, and they say that if this night is too much for me to bear, that the morning will be worse.
If I am lonely in the night, they whisper that isolation grows with morning. I press my hand to my beating heart this night, and these monsters poke me, laughing, as they say that my chest will only tighten, and this beating will only come faster, come morning. This shame that only magnifies as I re-live how I fell apart and blew up and exploded in front of them all – the monsters tell me that it’s all over now, how the shame I bear is something that won’t disappear. Especially with morning.
I’m afraid of morning because the monsters tell me that morning only exemplifies my dark night; it exposes it, brings it into the open. They tell me that my dark night is no longer mine alone: that it is as if morning is a torch that shines on my shame, for all to see, for all to walk away.
That is why I am afraid of morning.
The monsters are lying to me.
The truth about morning is that it rises.
Morning rises, all painted gold.
The truth about morning is that it reconciles old hearts and weary bones and battered relationships. It births open space in closed souls. It doesn’t torch shame: it heals it, in community, in tears, in love.
Morning is what grows out of night, morning is what rises out of stars, and morning is what shines right round and within you and us and all creation. Morning is our song, our greeting, our celebration.
Do the monsters talk to you, too?
Though tonight we hear no song --
Come, with me,
we’ll seek morning together.
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