I remember the 5 a.m. prayers, before the sun, the whole house quiet.
The quietest hour of the day, when prayer was the first thing the house did.
Five in the morning, and the world outside was still dark and still. I would sit by the window with a cup of warm milk, the Bible open on my lap, and the whole house held its breath around me.
Those hours were mine in a way nothing else was. No phone, no errands, no one needing anything yet. Just the quiet, and the words, and the feeling that the day was being prepared before it began.
The family slept on, and I prayed for each of them by name — the ones far away especially, because distance made the prayer feel more urgent. It was how I loved them from that chair.
Years later, the habit is still there. Even when my hands are weak, I find the chair by the window. The sun still waits for me, the way it always did.