Morning Has Broken

I wish the title was mine, but we all know it’s not. It’s borrowed from a hymn written by Eleanor Farjeon nearly 100 years ago and made famous by Cat Stevens. The lyrics are copyrighted, so I can’t use them here, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I read them this morning. There are things that are just as splendid the 100th time you see or hear them as they were the first, aren’t there?

This is from 2023, written the week Gordon Lightfoot died. It’s very obviously dated, but as often happens, the feelings I had then are not. There have been more losses since I wrote it. Grief and memories are so inextricably woven that I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins. I’m thinking of my siblings today, and missing them all. Daybreak today was gloomy and damp and gray, but finding this again made me “praise with elation,” as the song says.

When I saw daybreak this morning--bad picture above--I thought, as I have all week, of Gordon Lightfoot. He passed away Monday at the age of 84 and the words of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” haven’t stopped playing in my mind since.

The church whose bell chimed 29 times the morning of the wreck rang its bell one morning this week, too, only it rang 30 times instead. Someone played “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. Morning broke on grief and gratitude. I guess it always does.

What is with you, Liz, that you must continually write about loss?

Yes, those italics are quoting the voice in my head. But it’s not loss I’m talking about. It’s the gifts we are given on the way. The gratitude inspired by those gifts.

I love churches, old ones especially. While I haven’t attended that many of them, I visit them as often as I can when traveling. I worship when I’m inside them--worship being personal. Sometimes I just mumble thank you on the way out. When Duane was in Vietnam, I’d go into St. Charles--which was unlocked in those days--and light candles to plead for his safety.

Something I’ve learned about churches--whether you go there for years or whether you just visit--is that even when you leave them, you don’t love them any less. The gifts you receive within those walls stay with you forever. They give you things to pass on to others. No, not judgment, but tolerance and love for others and sharing.

I’m feeling melancholy today, because of losses and changes and how quickly daybreaks, rainbows, and sunsets pass. But then I remember there will be more. Morning will break again, rainbows will light the sky and Bart See’s barn again, and the sun will set with a light show that brings people to stunned stillness.

You learn many lessons with age, and you don’t learn a lot, too. You give advice when it’s not wanted, share your opinion when it wasn’t asked for, and you sing along with songs that are interwoven throughout your memory even when people wish you wouldn’t. Grief and gratitude share equal space in that memory.

I am blessed. I hope you are, too. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.