Endearments of Morning

What we hear when we listen with our hearts

I sit on my bed, thinking about light and how I can describe hope in words.

Another gift, how morning comes. The house still, birds chirping outside, swooping to drink and dunk their beaks in the water bowl. September air in northern California—crisp, with a hint of cold on my skin when I push out the windows.

The sun's light blankets one tree branch in the backyard, the other in shade from a taller tree’s branches overhead. Sunlight and shadow. Undulations of light in stillness. The light moves, and the earth rotates.

Here, here, is more light for you. And here.

It comes.

How beautiful it must be to watch us sleep and then wake. God’s children are resting, some at peace in their dreams. And when we stir, what are the hopes of a God who loves and loves and loves? Our bodies waking, thoughts and ideas beginning to form. What are his hopes for us as we rise?

Another day, another gift. Will they see it? Notice it? Do they feel my closeness? My love everywhere, in everything, inside their very skin?

He calls out to us. Every moment, another smile, another kiss: morning breaking wider now—light brightens the sky. Starker contrasts between dark shadow and light. It is subtle, his unfolding of a day, but sudden too, if we miss it—the way light falls through windows at dawn. 

My heart opens.

My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.

I hear him. It is a new exchange. I am turning my heart to him and hearing this endearment. They are the most beautiful words that fold me into him. I know I belong. I know whose I am. I know his feelings for me will never change. I know I am desired, adored, and cherished.

Wake up, dear one. My daughter. 

It is an invitation and a love song. It is a reminder of what is most true. These words say, “I love you, you are mine, I adore you, you are precious to Me.”

My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.

It is a shield when I feel the rising of self-condemnation. It is a blanket when the world feels angry, lonely, and cold. It is a hug when I am isolated, tired, and afraid. 

So I receive the kiss. I receive the arms around me. I accept God's bending low and whispering endearments into my mind, heart, and soul.

My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.

When I hear his voice and how He says it, the words are everything I need. And I love Him. I love Him. I love Him. 

And while the morning breaks and light shines forth, I know his truth will keep speaking. Even in sorrow. Even in confusion. Even in frustration. Even in desperation. Even in fear.

My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.

Do you hear him say it? Him whispering it to you now?