Temple
I am stirring.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet and the little one is snuggling up on the couch under a pink, fleecy blanket.
The windows were left open and the morning call of autumn rushes in, damp and nudging.
I am still barefoot, my toes numb to the chill after years of nakedness.
Gently stirring the pumpkin and the cinnamon and the honey into the oatmeal.
Swaying to the song of the coffee maker,
Pouring a tiny river of maple syrup and watching it run.
I don't even like oatmeal that much, but I remembered this morning that I am a temple.
I remembered as my daughter called too early this morning, shrouded in darkness, creeping loudly into my bed.
I remembered the gospel and how it means, "good news".
I remembered that I should let my yes be yes and my no be no.
I am a temple, I say to the pot.
I read the goodness of His word- His deep breaths of reassurance
And I drink in the peace He offers because I am a temple.
It's not just about me.