By Janet Walgren
5:30 A.M. Stretch! The birds outside my window begin to chirp. They have a distinct language made obvious in their morning conversation. What are they saying? Stretch! It’s Saturday, the rhythm of the neighborhood is different today. 5:35 A.M. Another family of birds begins to chirp…another language spoken? …hmm…or, are they just the tenors warming up? In another ten minutes they will be joined by a third bird family in full chorus. Stretch! My treadmill awaits me; I can delay. It’s Saturday.
I lay thinking, no stupor of thought… if only I could write my thoughts without pen and ink or vocalizing words, I’d have a book every morning. Why is it that we so clumsily record? 6:00A.M. the silence of Saturday interrupts my thoughts. What do the occupants of the noisy truck with the blaring Mariachi music, screeching tires and the blasting horn do on Saturday? A horn honks out back, the Rainmaker’s truck is warmed up. There is no Saturday for him but he gets the winter off. A doorbell rings down stairs, a child cries, there is a cadence to the language that sooths his soul. Soon there will be laughter interrupted by occasional cries and a different cadence to scold a bully. I don’t speak Spanish but there is a rhythm in language like a measure of music on a page that speaks the meaning of the song. Hmm… it’s like the birds. Is it a choir of sopranos, altos, tenors, and bases that awakens me each morning, or a chorus of three foreign languages that globally unite in song?
I’m up! Stretch!!! The quiet luxury of my thoughts has ended; I must spend the hours of my day. Somewhere in the scriptures there is a command, “Be still and know that I am God.” It’s Saturday’s gift.