I woke early, but that’s seldom a good sign. It means something is off. Either there’s too much on my mind, or I haven’t been praying enough. So I read. I opened up God, I Have Issues to the pages dedicated to the morning. There were a number of actual feelings I could have approached, but it was early, so my issue of the current moment was “the morning.”

I’m certainly not a morning person. I don’t wake early if I can help it, and it’s a struggle to pull myself out of bed. But I read an anecdote on the young author greeting the morning with his dad, pretending to shave beside him at the bathroom mirror. Then, later, reflecting as an adult:

I, in my robe and slippers, sit with a cup of coffee while the Father and I prayerfully swipe away the stubble—the worries and concerns I took to bed with me the night before. Last night they kept me up and led me to believe they would soon grow out of control. But this morning I see that my Father and I can easily control them—can keep my soul smooth despite their presence.

Sitting with a cup of coffee (or tea, in my case) sounded like the ideal morning—cracking open the blinds, letting the early-morning sunlight in. In a strange twist of events, I was instead inspired to take a morning jog.

It’s been disgustingly humid, but I learned it’s less so at seven o’clock in the morning. The air was still cool and dew-damp as I headed down to the trail. Others were also out running and walking, and I felt a kinship with them. The alarm on my watch went off, frantically buzzing for me to wake up as I was on mile two.

I rounded a corner, made room for a woman who was passing in the other direction, and tripped on the edge of the pavement. I tumbled down, smashing my hip and scraping the palm of my hand.

The woman helped me up, even as I laughed it off. I was quickly back to running, but the tumble had broken the spell. That just figures, I thought, my injured hand stinging against the wind. It had started to get humid, too, and I was still a long half-mile from home.

I kept going, because I had no choice. I had to get home somehow. But the tumble made me think of everything else that has been going on—the frustrations and confusions of life, work, and relationships. How in the midst of a pretty nice life overall, these little tumbles keep happening. But I get up, and I keep on going.

I’m not often good at “getting up.” Sometimes I want to sit around in my pj’s and binge on a box of crackers. On the trail, I would’ve been tempted to sit moping on the pavement if someone hadn’t been there to see it. But that’s the difference—someone was there to help. And God’s not going to let me binge on Wheat Thins, as much as I want to.

It’s tough breaking through the stubbornness of “I don’t wanna.” But I’ve gotta. It’s easy to focus on the difficult stuff, but the amount of good still overpowers it. I scraped up my hand, and I still (perhaps annoyingly) talk about that injury days later. But on that day, I also got my exercise in early. My legs felt the good soreness of getting stronger. And I had an opportunity to actually greet the morning, showing me that maybe morning isn’t so bad after all. Not that I want to greet it every day, or anything.

God can “keep my soul smooth,” despite the troubles that pop up. He extends a hand to help me up. He lends me His strength to get through it. Sometimes, He pesters me to wake up long before the alarm clock does. I don’t know why. But I know it’s good for me, even if it stings a little.