There is a particular brand of grace that finds you on the Texas Gulf Coast when a North breeze decides to blow. It is a dry, cooling wind that pushes back the heavy coastal dampness, leaving the air light and the morning feeling like an unexpected gift. I am out on the front porch today, tucked away in my chair, just watching the occasional pair of headlights find their way down the front road.
It is an unusual morning, one where the old mechanical rhythms of the household have been temporarily set aside. My youngest grandson began his journey at a new daycare yesterday, a shift that left my own morning schedule in a bit of a tangle. My daughter has already ushered him off, and the oldest boy is likely counting mile markers on the high school bus by now. Back inside, the granddaughter is taking one final day of rest to see off a lingering illness.
Instead of the usual rush to get back inside and begin the day’s work, I’ve found myself staying here in the shadows of the porch, looking out into the deep quiet of the dark yard.
From somewhere off in the distance, a train whistle calls out. It’s a sound that always feels a bit like a memory. I can hear the heavy, rhythmic rumble of steel on steel, a low vibration that carries through the cool air, competing only with the soft, paper-dry rustle of the new leaves in the oaks. It’s a steady, industrious sound that only serves to make my own stillness feel more intentional.
I’ve sat here long enough now to see a change in the horizon. The sky just above the eastern trees has begun to take on a faint, reddish hue. It isn’t light yet—not in any way that would help you find a path or read a book—but it is a promise. It is the slow, steady arrival of a new day, arriving exactly when it’s meant to, whether we are ready for the rush or not.
In the quiet of the morning, it’s enough just to sit and watch the colors change.
