Before Dawn

I wake before the light, the fire murmuring in the hearth, its glow trembling against the dark. This hour once felt like a secret kept between the soul and God; silence deep as eternity, prayer rising like breath. But now the body rebels. Limbs ache. The pulse is slow. The fire in the hearth seems stronger than the one within.

The Fathers said, Leap from your bed as from burning coals. Once those words pierced me, ignited me. Now I rise more like a stone being lifted from the riverbed; heavy, worn smooth by years and waters unseen. I know this slowness, this ache, is not sin, but still I mourn the vigor that once ran like flame through my prayer.

Yet even this heaviness has its grace. The Lord meets me not in the strength I had, but in the surrender that remains. When the body weakens, the soul can no longer pretend; it must be held. There is a purity in the helplessness, a fire that burns low yet never dies.

I remember the story from the desert: a young monk, weary in his struggle, confessed to his elder that his heart had grown cold. The old man looked at him and said only, “Why not become all fire?” And as he lifted his hands toward heaven, his fingers themselves became flame. That vision burns still, not for wonder’s sake, but as a reminder that the fire of God is not born from strength, but from surrender.

So I beg, O Christ, kindle again the hidden ember. Let the weariness itself become prayer. If I cannot leap from my bed, let my heart leap within me. If I cannot stand long, let my weakness bow low before You. Consume anxiety, consume fear, and make of my fatigue a sacrifice of praise.

I have no strength left to give, only this quiet yearning: that grace might overcome nature, that the heart might once more burn without ceasing, that love might be the only fire left in me when all else grows cold.