A Morning That Wouldn’t Start

Come sit with me for a moment.
Imagine we’re each in our purple chairs, coffee in hand, nothing to fix—just a place to land.

This morning didn’t start the way I planned. My husband kissed me goodbye in the dark, heading to work, quietly offering—as he so often does—to carry the load for me. He would take the kids. I could rest. I had asked, and he said yes without hesitation. He always does.

But later, as the light came up, I changed my mind. I thought, I can do this. He’s busy. I’ll help. So I offered to take the kids instead, and he received that gift just as easily. That’s how we move together—back and forth, service passing between us like breath.

Then the car wouldn’t start. Just clicking.
Then the dashboard lights flickered like they were trying too hard.
Then the dog threw up yellow bile on the carpet.

You know the kind of morning.

And right there—paper towels in hand, engine silent, plans dissolving—I noticed something. Not in a big, dramatic way. Just a gentle realization settling into my body.

I could fight this morning…
or I could go with it.

Nothing was actually wrong.
Life wasn’t breaking down.
Systems were recalibrating.

The car needed a jump.
The dog needed care.
I needed to slow down.

And then—this is the part that surprised me—I saw my husband’s love with new eyes.

For years, I quietly wished for flowers. For gifts without asking. Little surprises. And yet, here I was, standing in the middle of a life built on something sturdier and more faithful than bouquets.

He loads the dishwasher.
He moves the laundry along.
He says yes when the kids need care.
He steps in without resentment, without tallying, without fanfare.

His love has always been service.

I didn’t miss it—I received it gratefully for decades—but this morning, I recognized it fully. And in that recognition, something settled. I didn’t need the flowers anymore. What I had was better. Deeper. Anchoring.

That’s when I realized: this is what the purple chair is for.

Not escape.
Not fixing.
But stabilizing ourselves in the middle of ordinary life.

The purple chair lives wherever we pause long enough to notice.
It lives in kitchens and driveways and carpet stains.
It lives in acts of service, in laughter after frustration, in choosing flow over resistance.

We all need water.
We all need shelter.
We all need nourishment and movement.

And we all need a purple chair—a place inside ourselves where we can sit with what is, let it teach us, and feel held while life recalibrates.

So if your morning clicks instead of starts…
If your plans flicker…
If love 💝 shows up wearing work clothes instead of roses…

Take a seat in your purple chair—wherever it may be.
Sit with your whole self: ego and essence, body and soul, mind and strength.
Stay for a moment or two.

Life knows what it’s doing… even here.
And maybe—especially here—
in this ordinary, everyday, earth‑suit journey.

So settle back. Breathe. Let your chair hold you. Notice what is alive within you. Life is with you. And Life is Someone.

Life is not a concept. Life is a Person.
“In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.”
(John 1:4, NIV)