barrel out your chest, birds

I am more than 14,981 days old. I guess that in all those days I have only seen the sun rise no more than fifty times—and that’s a generous estimate. Regardless, these things I know:

Though I yet sleep while the sun rises, my God is already at work. On those days when I am reluctant to get out of bed—

--maybe I’m afraid of something,
maybe the previous day has given me a sound beating,
maybe I don’t know how I am going to make some wrong I’ve committed right
but need to face it nonetheless,
maybe someone I love has passed through the veil of death,
maybe the cupboard has been empty,
maybe I am facing death myself—

on those days…my God neither slumbers nor sleeps. My Father has always found a way out, he still commands dawn to break, clockwork mercy. He still grants strength—each new day—and hears each desperate plea, spoken or otherwise.

Does he smile to the point of laughter as the first rays of sunlight hit each unique shore, city, ocean, village, farm, mountain, river, tree, rock and valley? I suppose he does. After all, how could lovingkindness fail to laugh? Though we wept last night, he has enough joy to spare each new day.

And hope. Barrel out your chest, birds. He sees the sparrow and numbers every feather laced with morning dew. He knows every crystal drop on every blade of grass, twinkling at first light. He is bigger than the sun yet smaller than the photon. How could he not infuse your cells with new life?

I am less than 16,000 days old. He is the Ancient of Days.