It’s a silvery blue morning and I don’t want for anything more.
Up before the day begins, I have a vicious cough that won’t let me sleep. I’m brewing coffee and looking out the window at the hazy sky over my neighbors roof. Their driveway is directly outside my kitchen sink and we hear every car door open and close, every engine rumble, every step from door to door.
Our neighborhood is small. Our house is small, but this is not a complaint. This is a blessing. A small house means less to clean, less space to heat and more of a need to be close to and conscious of one another. We are cozy, not cramped.
Our neighbor leaves for work – car door opens, closes, engine revs, tires drag over pebbles – I hear my children stir beneath their blankets on the other side of the wall.
The pellet stove turns clicks and shushes into life behind me, and I’m overwhelmed by warmth. Not from the fire that hasn’t yet begun to blow, but from the rush of comfort these small ordinary moments bring me – my children shifting in their slumber, a fire stirring in the next room, coffee filling a pot before me, the silvery light over pouring over my counter tops, reminding me of winter, of advent, of peace.
The house breathes quietly, the stove still warming, sleeping bodies still resting.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I am thankful.