The best of my mornings begin at five o’clock when everyone else is still asleep, the house is quiet, and the only sound I hear is the gurgle of the coffeemaker. On these rare mornings, I look out across the backyard and watch Nature’s drama unfolding, a drama which often foreshadows the course of my own day.

A bright goldfinch, striped with black wing feathers, perches at a feeder outside the kitchen window. The sun’s rays catch his glimmering yellow feathers, and magically, he is ablaze in golden light. He dips his beak once then twice into the feeder to find the sunflower seeds. He seems content. Suddenly, without warning, a large mockingbird swoops down, squawking to high heavens, and plows into the feeder. In a matter of seconds, the goldfinch’s moment of contentment ends.

Outside the sliding glass doors, a tiny hummingbird sits on the red flowered perch of a feeder. His iridescent colors shine like beautiful jewels in the soft light of morning sun. He dips his beak into the feeder, flutters his wings, then dips again. His little body fattens as he relaxes on the perch. He seems content. Suddenly, another hummingbird squeaks, zooms toward the feeding hummer, and knocks him off the perch. Another moment of contentment vanquished.

I sit at the island that separates the kitchen from the den and sip my strong, sweet coffee. For a few minutes, I stare out at the backyard, lost in peaceful memories and private dreams. I whisper prayers for God’s guidance, his Grace and Mercy so crucial to me now. I snuggle into the seat cushion, content.

“Joy!”

My mother’s loud, shrill call interrupts the silence.

“Joy, did you HEAR me? Hurry. I can’t get my pants on.”

In a matter of seconds, I am scurrying down the hall to her bedroom.

“What took you so long?” she asks. “I hate these stupid old pants. They’re worn out.” She struggles with the waistband, grunts when she tries to bend over and slip the pants over her feet. “I can’t do it, Sister. Help me.”

“You’re supposed to be doing this by yourself, Mother,” I say as I help her. “Remember what your therapists said?”

“Those stupid ole insurance people? They don’t have the sense God gave a flop-eared donkey.”

“They’re nurses and therapists.”

“Here,” she says pointing to the floor. “Help me with my shoes. Do we have anything in this house for breakfast?”

A few minutes later, we head to the den/kitchen, my mother inching her way toward her favourite chair. As we near it, she stops and waves her finger at me.

“Watch this,” she says and shuffles to her chair. Before she sits down, she reaches out and grabs one of the rungs of her newly-installed safety pole. Then she eases herself down into the chair. “See? I don’t need those people. They don’t know their hind ends from a hole in the ground anyway. Where’s my coffee?”

As I’m cooking her breakfast, she calls to me again. “Sister, watch this.”

She grabs the safety pole and pulls herself up out of the chair. “Told ya so,” she says. “Now, call your helper and tell her to stay away from my house. I don’t need her anymore. Then call those insurance folks and tell them all to go to…”

“Sorry, Mother,” I interrupt. “I need her help, and you need the therapists. Period.”

“Didn’t you see what I did? What do you need help with? I can do everything by myself.” She sits back down. “Where’s my breakfast?”

As I’m frying bacon and whisking eggs, I glance outside at a little hummingbird perched at the feeder. Fat and content, he sips the nectar. On a tree limb above him, though, another hummer perches. He moves his beak from side to side, flutters his wings, readying himself. I know what’s coming.

Suddenly, I hear the thud of a large glass and the thunk of a plastic cup as they hit the floor. I know before I even see it that orange juice is splattered across the floor and coffee is splashed all over her shoes and socks.

“Uh, oh,” my mother says.

I turn off the burner and slide the pan away. Then I whisper, “Lord, please help me to smile.”

Another moment, interrupted.