My parents were early risers. They beat the sun out of bed and by eight o’clock, they had done what I would consider a full day’s work. Of course, since they were up, they certainly expected their children to be up and going as well. When Mom fixed breakfast, she fixed it for everyone at the same time. That’s what I expected and was used to. It was a new day. We had to eat and be fortified to meet whatever the day brought. As I look back now, I consider that a pretty good way to be.
Sometimes, the days are long and wearisome. Worries, burdens, the ill health of those we love bears down like a merciless sun in a time of drought. And, by night, we are ready to say, Enough! But, there’s something about the morning, of the hope of a new day, of things getting better or at least having the strength to face them, that makes us able to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
The word “breakfast” is simply breaking the fast, the period of not eating while we sleep.. Many people nowadays skip breakfast, not taking time to sit down at a table and eat. To my way of thinking, that’s no way to begin the day. If we don’t have time to sit down before beginning the day, we need to get up a few minutes earlier. With a cup of hot coffee, some warm food in our stomachs, and a prayer of faith, the day doesn’t look so bleak, or at least we feel more able to deal with the bleakness.
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” ( Psalm 30:5.)
We are kindred spirits, Blanche! : )
I always love to see a new day dawning …”This is a day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)
Fun to know you enjoy, too! : )
Thanks for the comment, Fran. Yes, mornings are, for me, the best part of the day.
I remember getting out of bed by six in the morning, and heading for the barn to milk cows. Then it was back to the house with a table set for all, with a bowl of oatmeal, bacon or sausage, biscuits and gravy, and usually eggs for those who wanted them. And there was always a jar of honey on the table as well. I have one sister who hated milking cows, and she found a way to avoid the chore. She would deliberately “miss the bucket”. Finally, one day Daddy told her to “go back to the house and help your Momma.” She never milked another cow! What different times.
Yes, they were different times, but how blessed we were to have had them! I remember Mom said they had to help with the milking and she was afraid of one particular old cow who always seemed to roll her eyes at Mom. So, she’d swap with her sister Alice. Alice would help with the milking and Mom would wash dishes. I was more of a hindrance than a help with milking so Dad gave up on me and I couldn’t help him saw wood either. My end of the cross-cut saw would buckle! Thanks for your interesting comment!