Sunday Mornings I
For the past few years, I’ve been intentional about seeking more peace in my life. Peace doesn’t come easily in a noisy world, but I’ve always known where to look for it: in nature. Walking, listening to birds, watching trees sway in the wind, noticing flowers and grasses, breathing deeply of the morning air—all of this centers me. And no day captures this rhythm of peace more than Sunday.
I rise at 5:00 a.m., just as I do during the week. The coffee maker is always set the night before. Even though no one else in the house will be up for hours, I look forward to this quiet time. I feed the dog. If the sky has begun to lighten, I let out the chickens. Then I take my coffee to the back deck, wrapping myself in a blanket against the cool morning air. My deck faces west, so I don’t see the sunrise, but I see the stars still scattered across the sky, and the moon slowly fading. I listen to the birds, to the wind, to the gentle quiet of the world waking up. My Labrador sits beside me—my second Lab, and as gentle a companion as the first. These moments are simple, but they are holy.
When the sun is up, I change into my walking clothes and head out for a walk. We’ve mowed trails across our land, which was once pasture but is being slowly restored to its native prairie state. That labor deserves its own story, but for now, it is enough to say: I walk. About three miles every morning. Sometimes with a podcast in my ear, but more often—especially on weekends—I listen to the world around me. This morning I heard bucks chuffing in the distance. I heard birds pausing in our prairie on their migration. I heard cows mooing and, faintly, the bells from the convent a mile to the north.
And then, the last piece of my Sunday: church. I have loved the church since I was a little girl. Today, my faith is deeply rooted in the Episcopal Church's “Creation Care” movement. That work—restoring prairie, tending to the land, and being part of a community that names care for creation as holy work—is what saves me. This September, as the Episcopal Church observes the Season of Creation, I reflected on the importance of advocacy.
I shared this with my congregation:
“This weekend, millions of birds migrated across North America in one of the largest migrations in decades. Many survived because communities turned off their lights. That small, collective act is a picture of what advocacy looks like—speaking and acting on behalf of those who cannot speak for themselves. Our readings today call us to that same work. Jeremiah buys a field as a sign of hope for the future, even in a time of destruction. Paul urges Timothy to ‘take hold of the life that really is life,’ not to be distracted by wealth. And Jesus warns us in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus what happens when we fail to see our neighbor’s need. Creation is also our neighbor. When rivers are polluted, when habitats are destroyed, when species vanish, it is Lazarus at our gate.
As the church, we are called not only to love creation but to advocate for it. To speak for clean air and water, for the creatures God has made, for a sustainable future where all can thrive. Turning off a light, planting a tree, urging leaders to act justly—these are ways we bear witness to God’s hope. Wendell Berry wrote, ‘The earth is what we all have in common.’ To advocate for creation is to advocate for life itself—for the birds, for our neighbors, and for generations yet to come.”
Sunday mornings are my anchor. Coffee on the deck, walks through the prairie, food shared with family, worship rooted in creation and hope. They remind me that peace is not something to stumble upon accidentally—it is something to seek, to cultivate, to practice. And for me, it begins here, one quiet Sunday morning at a time.
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