I've never been much for mornings.
Before their were kids and early breakfast beggings and the mornings were slow, controlled and routine, he used to always lean in towards me, in an embrace, with a big grin on his face as if he were off to a multi-million dollar high-rise job and whisper, "Good morning."
It would drive me crazy.
Didn't he realize all that had to be done and all that wasn't going right or working?
Secretly it loathed me that he could be surrounded by burdens that needed lifting and problems that needed fixing and still be happy in spite of them all.
He knew something that I didn't know then, that a good morning was a gift and that grace was something that anyone could give and that an embrace could erase all the frustrations and worries with the truth that "everything will be okay."
It took him awhile, but after a few grunts and groans and moans from a mouth that only speaks disapprovals before drinks of coffee, he stopped with his early morning well-wishes.
Instead he fell silent as he left for work with his worn boots and holed pants, his tool belt hanging loosely around his waist as he walked to his rusted stead and plodded away.
After a few years of it, I kind of got to missing it and wondered why I had bitten the hand that tried to feed me what I really needed, spoken words of assurance that it's good because of a good God who gives this joy and the morning and it's all for the taking, waiting to be embraced.
And those words that are once hushed into silence, it takes awhile to get them back, even years. So, I tread lightly. Better a held tongue than a longing down the road for the way things were.