I squeezed the toothpaste from the wrong end.
He left his socks in the strangest places.
And I woke up early alone and mourned it. The man I married does not wake up early. Nor does he drink coffee minutes after waking. These things I thought important, integral to the meshing of two lives into one. We would sit on the couch and watch the sun roll up from the ground. We would whisper hopes and dreams for the day and pray over steaming mugs of dark roast.
Somewhere in the last near-30 months, I let go.
I released that ridiculous expectation. Repeated mornings of pouncing on Aaron, sleeping curled under comforter, did not go well. Dragging him out of bed and thrusting some chai at him (his preferred hot drink of choice), did not produce the meaningful moments I had imagined.
In the waking alone, I have found great beauty and rest. It is my silent time, the hour of the day before anything else has woken to clamor and tug at my attention. It is my communion time, stillness to speak to God and silence to listen to God. And when I do hear the creaks of stirring, watch the old bedroom door struggle open, my heart is prepared to be something kind, something gracious, something generous to that man I gave my life to.
Funny how we make ourselves miserable sometimes to create what we think we need. What we refuse might actually be the better gift, given by a Father whose knowledge is deeper than ours.