A grove of trees edges our pond, just across the water there, exactly where the sun rises. I woke up long before it peaked over the leafy tops yesterday, an occurrence worthy of mention if only for its rarity. I am a deep and easy sleeper.
But on that day, 9/11/12, I opened my eyes to find the bedroom inky dark. The french door blinds were open, and I looked out at the night, guessing at the time. Should I make my way to the bathroom, reasonably sure it was nearly dawn (and a great opportunity to get the day started a bit early for a change)? Or should I stay still in the quiet, expecting to fall back into dreamland with little hesitation or effort?
I did not get up.
But I didn’t fall asleep either, at least not for a long while. Instead I lay there thinking of the date, thinking of the many families who would awaken to face the day with sad, heavy hearts.
I have so much to be grateful for I thought. So, so much. And I began to count my blessings.
One, two, three. Ten, Twenty, Thirty, Forty. And on and on, for a long, long time. And before I knew it I felt my consciousness rise again, lifting me from another deep sleep. My eyes opened to find the lake trees bathed in a magnificent light, an orange halo, the promise of another day.
A thousand times I looked toward that 9/11 sky, making my way through the day. Every single time, it was glorious.
Thanks and praise be to God. Thanks and praise.