“I hurried over so you could take a picture,” said Matt, the lifeguard who was taking over for me so I could home.
Two weeks of working together and he’s got me figured out. How many times has he heard me say, “I need to get a picture of that!” Or, how many times has he seen me grab my phone out of the office so I could snap a shot of the sunrise.
I told someone at Hutchmoot that I was practically giddy over the prospect of working at this job, and that hasn’t changed since it started.
Leaving the house at 5 AM to lifeguard for two hours every morning has been fun.
And stimulating. Adult conversation is such a treat.
The sunrises aren’t bad either.
I arrive in the dark. This morning I stood, looking out from near the pool, and snapped a grainy picture. The white dot in the distance is a lighted lamppost.
Since the pool was redone, it has a wall of windows facing east. The lights are always on in there. In the darkness, the pool area fairly glows when I arrive.
Of course, when working as a lifeguard, I’m not staring out the windows. I’m scanning the pool, in case any of those early morning lap swimmers need help. So far the only help anyone has needed is turning the music down or alerting maintenance that the hot water isn’t working in the showers.
But I love my co-workers. They are such interesting people. And we converse in complete sentences.
I’ve tried explaining to people how being a caregiver for someone with dementia is like taking care of a toddler. Anyone who has had children knows the stage of incomplete conversation. That’s how it is with my father these days. That, or trying to guess what he’s trying to say, or trying to follow the tangents that his mind travels down.
Right around the time I’m getting ready to go home — I can only really afford two hours when I know he’ll be sleeping — the sky is changing.
One day last week, I tried to take a picture of it, but the pool reflected back off the glass and gave me this shot.
So this morning I went from window bay to window bay trying to find a place that didn’t reflect the pool.
“Just step outside,” said one of the other guards, so I did.
Golly, it was pretty.
I stopped again just beyond the pool on my way home.
I wondered if there was a liturgy in Every Moment Holy for the sight of a beautiful sunrise.
Then I realized I already knew one, and recited on my way home —
But this one thing I bear in mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
They are new every morning;
Great is thy faithfulness.
8 thoughts on “New Every Morning”
Do you know the hymn ‘Lord Of All Hopefullness’? It was written by my childrens’ great grandmother, Jan Struther (who also wrote Mrs Miniver – was her to all intents and purposes). I never knew her but the words of the hymn sprang straight into my mind as I read your post. I am often to be found singing it at various points in the day. The fractured nature of fragmented conversation is hard be it with a very young or a very old person or someone in between … the joy you take in those two hours when you get to have fully formed conversation is something that I am glad for. I don’t have much to give, but I give you Jan Struther’s hymn as a little gift through the ether
I was not familiar with that hymn — but it’s lovely. Thank you for sharing it with me.
To know that you’re related to Mrs. Miniver — well! It makes me want to watch the movie again just to refresh my memory.
I’m so glad you like it 🙂 And in my opinion, you can never EVER have too much of Mrs Miniver (though I may be a teeny bit biased)
beautiful! I see it most mornings while i work. Say hi to your dad for me.
Great sunrise shots! I’ve seen that same aglow quality out of a pool contained in one of our community centers at night.
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