Sleep's normally planned.
We're used to when it comes, between 10 and 11, lasting until 6 or 7, interrupted only when body functions demand it.
Surrendering, you shower, dress and head out for coffee before the sun's up.
It's nice outside, far warmer than January normally is, so you opt to stay out, meandering towards a view of the sunrise.
Topping a random crosswalk, the beauty of the earth slaps you in the face forcing you to stop and catch your breath.
Holiness is spread out before you.
"The heavens declare the glory of God and the skies proclaim the work of his hands" (Psalm 19:1).
Collecting yourself you find a place to lean or sit, sip the coffee, trying to take it all in at once but it's far too much.
The beauty is overwhelming and the senses can't process it all ... the canvas of colors, the salt hanging in the air, the Ocean tenderly kissing the shore, the coolness of the sand between your toes, Pelicans diving into the Sea, the songs of Seagulls and the knowing smiles of passing Dolphins.
Inside you somehow know this is way you couldn't sleep.
God needed a few moments to remind you, this is all for you, this life you have, in the place you have it, with the people you share it with, for the gifts you possess, in the time that you have.
The coffee grows cold and you have no idea how long you've stood there, temporarily transported from this world into the other one spread out before you.
In the distance a horn honks calling you back.
The things you need to do demand attention and priority.
Your stomach growls.
And you're back.
Most often it's us asking God for something or another, bordering on demands and what we get are prayers met with silence.
But sometimes it's God who starts the prayer, extending the invitation to us, to become part of everything we've been given.
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