Before the House Awakens

A morning poem of hidden prayer, small labors, and the peace that comes before the world begins to speak

“Early in the morning my prayer comes before you.”

— Psalm 88:13

Before the house remembers itself

there is only the clock

counting out a mercy I did not earn

the dark holds everything together

walls, years, the quiet ache in my bones

the body rising slower now

as if it too has learned reverence

the dog waits without complaint

a simple hunger, a simple trust

I fill the bowl

and something in me is fed

the coffee breathes before I do

its warmth rising like a small offering

into the unseen

I sit

firelight flickers against the edges of things

not enough to banish the night

only enough to reveal it gently

this is the hour that asks nothing

the hour that does not explain

the hour that does not require me

to be anything but present

and so the Name begins

not spoken loudly

not even formed completely

but breathed

Lord Jesus Christ

have mercy on me

in

and out

until the words are no longer mine

until the breath is no longer mine

until even the ache becomes prayer

the day has not yet claimed me

no voice has entered

no demand has risen

only this

the hidden liturgy of a waking soul

the offering of a small, unnoticed life

held in the silence before light

and for a moment

everything is enough