Skip to main content

Before the World Starts Talking



There are early mornings… and then there are the kinds of mornings where even God gently rolls over, checks the clock, and says,
“Mike… absolutely not. Go back to bed. Nothing holy happens at this hour.”

But for reasons only my inner circle understands, I had to get up painfully early the other morning.

Not “I hit snooze once” early.

More like “the moon still had managerial responsibilities” early.

The kind of dark where your coffee maker sounds offensively loud and every floorboard in the house suddenly becomes a percussion instrument designed specifically to wake your family and destroy your legacy.

By the time I finished what I needed to do, going back to sleep felt impossible. My brain had already clocked in for the day like an unpaid intern fueled entirely by anxiety and reheated thoughts.

So I made coffee.

And I stepped outside.

Just me.
The backyard.
The steam rising from the mug.
And that strange silence that only exists around 4 AM…when the world feels less like a planet and more like a paused movie.

No cars.
No lawnmowers.
No notifications.
No one needing anything from me.

Just breath.

I sat there praying a little. Thinking a little. Trying not to think too much, which, if you’ve ever had anxiety, is like telling a golden retriever not to chase a tennis ball.

And then…

The birds started.

One chirp at first.

Then another.

Then suddenly it sounded like every bird in Suffolk County had been called into an emergency staff meeting.

They were yelling across trees.
Interrupting each other.
Starting songs halfway through other songs.

Honestly, it sounded less like nature and more like a tiny avian podcast network.

And the weirdest part?

Every sound somehow blended together while still remaining completely distinct.

Like they all had separate stories but shared the same sunrise.

At one point I actually pulled out my phone and recorded it because I genuinely thought,
“There’s no way this is as beautiful as I think it is. Maybe I’m hallucinating from sleep deprivation and caffeine.”

But later, before writing this, I listened back to the recording.

And for one solid minute…

I heard things I remembered…
and things I completely missed the first time.

Tiny calls in the background.
Different rhythms.
Different conversations.

It honestly felt like the birds were talking to each other…
and somehow talking to me too.

Which sounds insane.

But also…
maybe not.

Because there are moments in life where creation feels less like scenery and more like companionship.

The birds got louder as the sky slowly changed colors above me.

I kept looking up between prayers.
Between thoughts.
Between sips of coffee.

The stars were fading one by one like old theater lights dimming before the next act begins.

And by 4:45…

The darkness was mostly gone.

The birds were still carrying on like caffeinated church ladies after Sunday service.

Meanwhile my house remained completely silent.

Everyone asleep.

Inside: stillness.

Outside: the entire world stretching awake in its pajamas.

And sitting there watching all of it unfold in real time…

I felt peaceful.

Not “my problems disappeared” peaceful.

Not “everything in life suddenly made sense” peaceful.

Just…

present.

Which might actually be the closest thing to peace most of us ever get.

Later, when I walked the dogs, something felt different.

Usually I stumble through those walks half awake looking like a man recently rescued from sea.

But this time I felt lighter.
Calmer.
Like my nervous system had finally unclenched its fists for a few minutes.

And honestly?

Maybe this is something we’re supposed to do more often.

Maybe once in a while we need to wake up before the world starts performing.

Sit outside.
Listen carefully.
Watch darkness slowly surrender to light.

Because there’s something holy about hearing the birds before hearing everyone else’s opinions.

And the best part?

It’s free.

One of the last truly free things left in the world.

No subscription.
No app.
No upgrade package.

Just you…
the morning…
and the quiet reminder that life has been trying to speak to us long before we learned how to drown it out.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wooden Tulips

  Wooden Tulips T he first time I was ever really afraid- the kind of afraid that makes your body cold from the inside out- was the night Sadie was born. She was supposed to come on Valentine’s Day. Of course she didn’t. Sadie and Erin are both stubborn, so naturally she showed up early. I remember kissing Erin’s forehead, paper hearts taped to the hospital window, me rehearsing the one job I’d been assigned: cut the cord. I was ready to nail it. Dad of the Year. Opening scene. Cue applause. And then- she was here. Tiny cries, a flurry of nurses, scissors in my hand, cord cut, done. Erin was drifting in and out from the C-section meds, crying, laughing, floating. I was waiting to hold our baby. Our brand-new everything. And then a nurse leaned in. Whispered. “I’m sorry. I think your baby has Down Syndrome.” That was the first thing anyone said about my daughter. Not “She’s beautiful.” Not “Congratulations.” Just: I’m sorry. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. How could she k...

The Jacket

E very man has one item of clothing his wife has begged him to throw out for years. Mine was a light-blue jean jacket with a fake white cotton collar. Erin hated that jacket with the kind of passion most people save for politics or pineapple on pizza. I’d had it for years. Presidents had come and gone. My career had risen, collapsed, and tried to rise again. Our kids had grown taller than Erin — which isn’t saying much, but still. And through it all, that jacket kept hanging by the door like a stubborn dog that refused to die. It was hideous. I can admit that now. The collar looked like dirty clouds glued on by a kindergartner’s craft project gone wrong. The denim was the exact shade of regret you get when you bleach jeans one cycle too many. And still - I wore it everywhere. School events. Grocery runs. Parent-teacher conferences. Probably even funerals. It wasn’t clothing. It was my emotional support jacket. Erin tried everything: gentle hints, sarcastic digs, quiet donation runs tha...

The Spirit of Division (and Why We’re All Being Played)

  W e hear stories all the time about the supernatural—miraculous healings, near-death experiences, strange whispers in the night that make even skeptics pause. But how do we know what’s real? That’s what investigative journalist (and former atheist) Lee Strobel asks in his new book Seeing the Supernatural . He dives into evidence of the unseen world and invites us to consider something both ancient and terrifyingly current: What if God really does still rule over the spiritual realm—angels, demons, all of it? And maybe that’s where we need to start. Because the real battle today? It’s not just political, cultural, or ideological. It’s spiritual. We like to think politics is about ideas—policy, vision, leadership. But underneath the hashtags and press conferences, something darker is happening. Something feeding on us. Every election cycle, every argument at the dinner table, every “unfriend” click on Facebook— it all fuels a spirit that thrives on outrage. That sp...