Morning Song

Feb 21st

It is a beautifully quiet Saturday morning. Even though today was the first morning since we've arrived that we could sleep in, the 4am roosters and my internal alarm had me up by 6. But the tradeoff to watch the sunrise on the porch with a steaming cup of Joe was worth foregoing the luxury of sleeping in until mid-day. The roosters are still crowing. I’m surprised they don't crow themselves into laryngitis after hours on end starting at o'dark hundred before the sun has even packed its bags to hit the horizon. If I could bottle up the peace of this morning, I would send it to my family who’ve spent an endless vigil in Grandma’s hospital room over the last 4 days and nights after my grandmother fell, broke her hip and went through subsequent replacement surgery this week. I’ve had my family on my mind endlessly since word of Gram’s accident reached me. And in the morning, I feel particularly close to them, as if any second, one of them will come padding around the corner, hunting for a cup of coffee and a chat. Now a morning dove adds its call to the music of morning, offering a more peaceful musical strain in comparison to the rooster’s bracing call. The dove sits on a wire outside my window. I am reminded of early mornings on the farm, when the coo of the dove was always the most distinct, the gentlest of wake-up calls amongst the birds of daybreak. And the dove was always the most faithful, sending its gentle song out in the early morning hours even on the foggiest of mornings. I find it fitting this morning, seeing my favorite of morning songbirds staring at me from its perch outside of our balcony. In this morning when I want more than anything to feel close to my family, to help them in some way, the dove seems to bring me closer to them in song, bringing an air of familiar to the tropical, making my thoughts of family more vivid, tangible. Maybe this morning they’ll feel my love for them with the same intensity I feel.

A salesman just walked down the street hollering that he has fresh bread for sale. A man with a little hand-bell is walking not far behind ringing that he is available for a shoeshine if needed. The weekend mornings are quieter than the weekdays... and I'm grateful for that... for the slightly gentler introduction to the day. The world wakes early here... maybe because the morning is the coolest part of day, maybe because the daily work is so labor intensive or because transportation just takes longer thus demanding an earlier start.

Yesterday we waved good-bye to the group from Kansas City after a busy week of painting and building, lectures and meetings, touring museums and artisan colonies, sharing meals together and conversations about the internal and external work of the spirit and the gift of partnering American and Haitian communities for a mutual exchange of learning and service. As always, the groups come down to serve, yet leave feeling their hearts packed more full than when they arrived, their spirits spilling over with the gifts that the Haitian people give. And yet again, despite Patrick’s and my attempt to cater to the groups, they managed to rain words of encouragement on us, hug us with their support and inspire us with their own vision of service and partnership.

The morning seems so quiet after the happy hustle and bustle of the week’s activities. I am grateful for the time we had with our friends from Kansas City. After news of Grandma’s fall hit me mid-week, the group offered their gentle support and words of encouragement. I find it funny, that in our most difficulty moments here, a well of support bubbles up from unexpected places, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I pray that my family finds similar unexpected wells of support, whether from a particularly attentive nurse, a phone call from a friend, or from an understanding coworker. I wish I had more to give them than thoughts today, I wish I could take a shift at Grandma’s bedside, give a shoulder massage, or offer an ear or a shoulder. Our choice to move far away isn’t without sacrifice, and it is when the family goes through such times of celebration and suffering that that distance feels the most great.

So I focus on the morning dove, letting its song transport me to the farm on the Kansas prairie. I let that song settle in my heart. The cold Kansas winter likely didn’t allow for my parents to wake to a similar sound this morning, but I can pretend. Pretend that this familiar song carries across the ocean and miles between us, waking us this morning together, offering a communion of spirit at daybreak.