Long ago I formed the habit of giving the first hour of the day to God. My Dining Room becomes a Holy Place in those moments. I read, pray, meditate, try to make contact with the Source before I go out into my day. Sometimes I feel more connected than others, but I am faithful to be present, and God is faithful to be present too.

Through the window I see green, the trees, the birds at the feeders or in the birdbath, beginning their day too. The feeder, a gift a gift from my stepfather, sturdy and impervious to squirrels, faded by time but as good as ever. The birdbath, a Mother’s day gift from my husband.

In the window, a stained glass panel given to me by my Mother, the first light peeking through it.

In the corner the Monsterra plant, a gift from my son, once an uncertain chute, now in glorious fullness.

In the Hutch, my wedding dishes, reminders of well wishes from family and friends long gone now. A soup tureen that is all that is left of my Grandmother’s China. I never use it, but I like to know that it’s there.

On the wall, the prints we splurged on when bought our first house, when we had nothing and yet everything.

And on the table where I fed my family for years, dented and scratched by many little hands, sit my Bible, my notebook, my pen, my coffee cup. An unlikely altar. A Holy place.

Here is where I start again. Here is where I decide anew how this day will be, whose this day will be. It is peaceful and quiet, my favorite hour of the day. I sit expectantly in the stillness, surrounded by gifts, surrounded by reminders that I am loved.