A Week Before the Rise

Where the Day Begins

I woke this morning the way I have come to begin each day, quietly, before anything else has a chance to take hold, offering a simple prayer of gratitude, “thank you, God, for another day of sobriety,” and then continuing, not for things, but for what I have come to understand as true gifts, for His love, His guidance, the prayers that have been answered and even the ones that have not, because I have learned, over time, that what is withheld can carry as much grace as what is given.

The house was still, the rhythm familiar, letting Coop out, feeding him, pausing for a moment of thanks for another day with him, then coffee, scripture, my journal open in front of me, and as I began to plan the day ahead, it came to me, gently but unmistakably, that one week from today I will be preparing my bake for the farmers market, and in that realization, something in me shifted, and tears came from the quiet weight of knowing how long I have been preparing for this moment.

A Life That Unfolds in Layers

I found myself reflecting on the shape of a life, how we are all given a beginning that is untouched, a clean slate, and from there we move through the world, learning, loving, grieving, carrying joy and sorrow and everything in between, gathering experiences that at times feel defining, yet over time I have come to see that they are not what define me at all.

It is not the events themselves, but how I have responded to them, how I have allowed them to shape me, soften me, strengthen me, and perhaps, in ways I could not see at the time, prepare me.

And maybe that is what a life is, not a series of disconnected moments, but a steady unfolding, each piece laying the groundwork for something still to come.

What Remains Constant

There has been one constant through it all.

God.

I think back to when my father was diagnosed with cancer, when time suddenly felt fragile and uncertain, and I remember how instinctively I turned to Him, how each morning before I even stepped out of bed, I would ask for the strength to love my father through those days, to offer him what he had given me my entire life, unconditional love, steady and present, no matter what was ahead.

And in that season, my faith felt immediate, necessary, something I reached for because I needed it to carry me.

What I Have Come to Understand

What I see now, with more clarity than I had then, is that for a long time I only turned to God in moments of suffering, as if His presence was something reserved for hardship, something to lean on only when I felt I could not stand on my own.

That realization has stayed with me.

Because in the twenty years since that season, through divorce, loss, grief, and the slow and sometimes uncertain rebuilding of a life I could not have imagined for myself, something has changed, not all at once, but gradually, quietly, in the way I now begin each day.

Gratitude has become the starting place.

Not just for the joy, but for all of it.

For the pain that shaped me, the clarity that followed, the discernment that guides me now, for sobriety, for the life that has been rebuilt piece by piece, and above all, for Him.

The Meaning That Emerges

There are moments when I wonder if all of it has been leading here, not in a grand or final sense, but in the quiet way that purpose sometimes reveals itself, not as something we chase, but as something we grow into.

Maybe this is part of it.

Maybe sourdough, this work of tending, waiting, nurturing something that cannot be rushed, is exactly where I am meant to be, and maybe the bread I offer is more than bread, but a reflection of everything that has shaped me along the way.

I cannot say with certainty what the full meaning is, or where it all leads.

But I am beginning to trust that it matters.

All of it.

Where I Stand Today

All I know, here in this moment, is that I am grateful, not in a passing way, but in a way that feels rooted and steady, that I am mindful of what has been given and what has been carried, and that there is a quiet contentment in recognizing that I am still becoming.

And perhaps that is enough.

Warmly~

Kathy
Art of the Crumb