On Thursday Morning, I Turned Off the Second Alarm and Lay There

On Thursday morning, when the alarm went off, my hand moved first and switched it off. Ten minutes later the second alarm rang, and I switched that off too. When the phone screen went dark the room grew quiet again, and a thin line of light through a gap in the curtain lay across the ceiling. Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, I thought: I feel like I've already used up this week.

Really, there are still two days left. Today and tomorrow. But my body already felt as heavy as a Friday evening. On Monday there was at least something called a plan. On Thursday the plan has scattered, and only the things I have to do are left. Under the blanket I wiggled my toes, searching for a long time for a reason to get up. In the end I found none, and my feet simply touched the floor first. I stopped while putting on my socks and sat on the edge of the bed.

I finally got up, washed, and went out. The walk to the bus stop felt longer than usual. Looking at the backs of the people walking ahead of me, they all seemed to walk more lightly than I did. Probably they are all having much the same Thursday. I adjusted my bag strap once and deliberately shortened my stride. The shops along the street still had their shutters half down.

A sentence that doesn't ask me to run

While waiting for the bus, I opened still().

but those who wait for the LORD will renew their strength. They will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run, and not be weary. They will walk, and not faint.

Isaiah 40:31 (WEB)

“Those who wait for the LORD.” I read that as looking up toward someone. It didn't seem to be telling me to find some strength; it seemed to be about where a person who has run out of strength turns to look. The eagles and the running weren't my story today. My eyes stopped at the last line, “They will walk, and not faint.” It seemed to say I don't have to run, and that walking is also a share of the work. Reading this didn't make my body lighter. Still, thinking that my share today is only as much as I can walk, something on my shoulders settled down a little. I read “walk” once more in my head.

Before the bus came, I lifted my head and looked at the sky. Between the buildings, clouds were slowly passing. I couldn't remember the last time I had looked at the sky in the morning. The edges of the clouds were faintly brightened by the morning light. Today I decided not to run, and to go only as far as I can walk. When the bus arrived and the doors opened, I didn't rush; I climbed on one step at a time behind the person ahead of me. I sat by the window and leaned my forehead against the glass for a moment.

Today's breath — Before you start walking, stop for a moment, lift your head to look at the sky, and breathe out slowly once.