::: before the tractor starts and the grandkids call my name

coffee, prayer, Cluck Norris, and the small beauties that ground me before the day begins

May 28, 2026

The coffee maker clicks on with a soft gurgle right around 5:45 a.m. I set it up the night before—grounds measured, water filled, timer programmed—because even small acts of preparation feel like kindnesses to my future self.

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I slip out of bed quietly, start the shower, and let the hot water wake me the rest of the way. By the time I’m dressed and the first rich notes of coffee begin drifting through the house, I’m already moving toward the front porch with my favorite mug in hand. No phone. No to-do list. Just the still-dark world and me.

This hour on the porch has become the quiet heartbeat of my days here on the homestead. I settle into the old wicker chair that’s worn to the shape of me, wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, and breathe.

First comes the prayer. Nothing fancy—just honest words spoken into the soft morning air. Some days it’s gratitude. Other days it’s laying down worries I’ve carried too long. There’s something about speaking them out loud before the sun comes up that makes them feel smaller, more manageable.

Then I simply watch.

The field across the way slowly changes from deep shadow to soft gold as the sun rises. I notice how the dew clings to the tall grass, the way the wildflowers by the mailbox are holding on or starting to fade. A frog might hop across the path, or a beetle will crawl along the porch with surprising determination. These small, ordinary things have become my teachers. They remind me that life keeps its own steady pace, even when mine feels hurried.

After a while, I open my Bible or the worn journal I keep nearby. A few verses, read slowly. Then I turn to whatever book I’m in the middle of. I’m one of those readers who sees the story like a movie in her head—the characters become real, the scenes play out vividly. I know I’ll probably be disappointed if they ever make it into a theater version, but that’s okay. For these twenty minutes, the story belongs only to me and the rising light.

There’s a sweetness in that hour of silence. My mind settles. The mental clutter that usually waits for me clears away.

Of course, I’m rarely alone for the whole hour. Cluck Norris, our opinionated rooster, always makes sure of that. He struts up from the back forty like a tiny feathered sheriff, crows loudly right in front of the porch to confirm I’m awake and not nodding off with my book, then gives me a satisfied look before heading back to his ladies. I’ve learned to smile instead of shoo him away. Even the rooster has his morning rituals.

Eventually the homestead begins to wake in earnest. I hear the tractor revving up as my son heads out to feed the cows. Then comes the familiar rumble of the side-by-side as my daughter loads up the grandkids for an early morning adventure. And finally—my favorite sound—the squeals of laughter and little voices calling, “Grandma Honey!”

That’s my cue. The quiet hour has done its work. I feel anchored, clear, and ready for the beautiful noise of the day.

This simple ritual—night-before coffee, porch time, prayer, watching, reading—has quietly become one of the most important parts of how I show up for my life. It’s not Instagram-perfect. The chair is a little rickety, the mug is chipped, and some mornings Cluck Norris is louder than my prayers. But it works.

In a world that moves so fast and demands so much, protecting one quiet hour feels like an act of resistance and remembrance. It reminds me who I am before the roles and responsibilities pile on. A woman trying to live rooted, attentive, and grateful—one cup of coffee at a time.

I’d love to hear from you—What does your own quiet morning moment look like these days? Share in the comments below.

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