As I Rise This Morning

Before my feet even touch the floor, before I open my eyes to the day, there are things I do—small, sacred rituals that prepare my heart and my mind for what lies ahead. I believe these moments matter, not just for me, but for my family, for those around me, and even for my country.  First, I pray. I thank God with all my being for another sunrise, for another chance. Another day to live, to breathe, to finish what I couldn’t finish yesterday. I don’t take for granted that I’ve been given time—time to learn, to love, to move forward. I ask for guidance for my day: as I head off to work, may I walk safely. May no harm befall me. May my footsteps be steady, my heart be calm. My family is always in my prayers. I ask that they are kept safe, protected, and healthy. That their days may be gentle. That they feel love and peace even in the tough moments. But my prayers do not stop at my doorstep. I pray for the people around me, especially those who are lost or wandering in the dark paths. Those who have made choices that hurt them—or hurt others—and may not yet see the consequences. I pray for clarity of mind for them, that their eyes may open to what is wrong, that their hearts may be softened so they may recognize mistakes and find a better way. It is not easy to learn from error, but it is possible with light. These days, my thoughts are heavy with what’s going on in the Philippines. The corruption—how it seeps into so many parts of life, how ordinary people suffer. The flooding—families displaced, communities drowning—literally and figuratively—because structures meant to protect us failed. I pray for relief for those affected, for rescue where there is danger, for shelter where there is loss, for restoration where there is destruction. I pray that those in power may be moved to act with integrity, to think of the many over the few, to see the people’s pain not just as news, but as lives that need healing.  There is a rosary I carry, one I’ve had since college. It has traveled with me through seasons of doubt, hope, struggle, and joy. Wherever I go, it goes. And when I hold it, I feel something sacred—a comfort, a reminder that I am not alone. That faith is a shield and a light when everything else feels fragile.  And then I think of the things I cannot leave without. They may seem ordinary—my wallet, my rosary, the guide to the rosary—but they are anchors. They remind me of what I value. If any are missing, if I forget to bring them, I feel incomplete. There is a kind of imbalance in stepping into the world without these things. They ground me in faith, in purpose, in gratitude. I share this not to preach, but to witness. To say that each morning I choose hope. I choose to believe in goodness, in change, in the possibility that small acts—of prayer, of kindness, can ripple outward. If you are reading this, maybe you have your own rituals. Maybe your own anchors. I hope you hold them close. Maybe you might find some peace in remembering what you carry and why. For me, these practices are not burdens but blessings: reminders that even in uncertainty, I have something to hold on to. Wishing all who read this a day full of light, purpose, and mercy. May you walk in peace, may your heart be fortified, and may you find strength not just in what you have, but in who you are.