Who booked your mornings?

Your first hour used to come already booked. Before your eyes were fully open, before a word to anyone, the cigarette was on your mind or already in your hand. It didn't care how you'd slept or what the day held. You didn't wake up into your life. You woke up into an appointment.

The best table of your day had a reserved card on it, and the name on the card wasn't yours. The cigarette booked your first hour before you were awake enough to object. That booking's cancelled now, and nobody sent a notice. The card's gone. The table's yours.

An open hour won't stay open long. Leave it and a screen grabs it before you're even upright. Whoever gets the first hour tends to steer the day. Give it a walk, a stretch, a page of something good. Or give it the oldest use of a still morning, telling God how you're really doing. He's always up early.

Tonight, pick what tomorrow's first twenty minutes are for, and set it out where you'll trip over it. Walking shoes by the bed. The book on top of your phone. Before you check anything else, check in. Morning, Lord. Walk into today with me. Then take your twenty. These days I wake up into my own life.