roots and wings

Morning has broken, like the first morning.

My mom used to sing this to me sometimes when I was falling asleep. My mom is singer by enthusiasm. She instilled that in me. That music is in my bones, in my spine, breathed into me as she subbed my back to get me to sleep.

Now, in seminary, we talk about the hymnal. “Morning Has Broken” is hymn number 469 in the Presbyterian Hymnal. Like it or not, this is where I come from. My culture (or at least a decent chunk of it) is the big blue leather bound hymnal with practically ancient songs in words that are no longer vernacular (although kudos to the latest tradition that changed His to God’s in “Morning Has Broken”). I am reformed.

But that is not all that I am. I am those moments in the night, comforted by the picture that songs paints for me of God’s feet treading in the morning dew, tickled by the feathery grass, delighting in every bit that was made. I am more, and I grow from my tradition.