It’s very early… 4:00 am. – the only time I seem to be able to forget about every other distraction and write.
Hot tea happens every time I’m up. Earl Grey. Cream and sugar.
For some reason, tea always tastes better brewed hot from a whistling kettle and poured into something flowery and china. Microwaved… it just doesn’t have any romance.
I love the sounds. I love the sound of cold water from the faucet filling the kettle; I don’t know why for sure. Its music is familiar and holds such promise. The snap-snap-click of the burner turning on, and the first soft rustle, swish, and whir of the water… there’s comfort in the familiar; it lets me know what’s coming.
I can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the wood floors as I pad through the house to the kitchen. Sometimes the plumbing randomly does something like a “whoosh” sound, but I don’t know why. If it’s frozen outside, sometimes the plumbing just moans.
My husband always got up early, especially on workdays when he had to drive the long winding highway of the “Grapevine” down to the fire station in the city. He tried to measure his movements out of bed, to the bathroom and out to the kitchen as quietly as he could, but even in his quiet, he had a sound. His routine had a rhythm and my memory recorded what I heard and without ever having opened my eyes, I could see him there, going about his morning business.
Coffee and the soft ker-thump of the recliner leaning back, God’s Word in his lap, I heard the soft, worn pages turn and saw the motion of his hands and fingers in my mind. The memory of it is still there.
I could even count on the sounds of his departures; I knew them so well and by heart.
After he made his last departure, the comfort of his sounds became void of his presence and I wonder even now – what fills the space he used to occupy in this world?
For us, the mornings became like the night and were filled with the sound of pain and immeasurable, overflowing emptiness.
You probably know what I’m talking about – the pain and its stabbing, uninvited ever-presence.
The sounds of your morning have now become the sounds of your mourning and there is no amount of cream and sugar that will help.
In heaven, the beloved-in-Christ lost from this world fill the holy realm with a new sound that no other occupant has expressed before their arrival. There’s a surprising kind of comfort to the truth of it. Your beloved still has a voice… and so do you, it’s just a different voice now. Good to think about.
The sound of your mourning will become the new sound of your morning, but the winter of it will soften and the pipes won’t moan as much. The warmth and life of the one you love will soon speak louder than the cold and death of their departure. The night will welcome instead of threaten, and you will rest.
In the meantime, take friend or family out today or tomorrow to the nearest antique store or a favorite nearby shop, and find one of those lovely china tea cup and saucer combos, and bring it home. Fill it with tea and cream and sugar and hope. Cry some too, but every time you sit with your new find, it will be a start and reminder that even your porcelain emotions hold the warmth and hope of Heaven.