Whippoorwills, mourning doves and the spirit of peace

It’s the height of summer and dawn breaks early and gently across our valley. The darkness lifts ever so slightly, creeping into twilight.

From the tree outside our bedroom window comes our morning messenger, heralding the beginning of another day.

“Whip-poor-will … whip-poor-will,” the winged crier proclaims. It’s the same song every day from our morning maestro. Some mornings I hear it and roll over for more slumber. Sometimes I sleep straight through.

But on more mornings than I would care to admit – like this one – I’m already awake. It’s 4:30.

The older I become the less I use an alarm clock. Even though I am still working and have appointments to keep, I find my sleep comes in intervals rather than long stretches. Being up early is normal.

Sometimes it’s the aches and pains of aging that keeps me restless. Sometimes it’s a troubled mind.Sometimes – like this morning – it’s both.

After a few minutes of trying to still my mind and body in a futile attempt for more rest, I quietly got up, hoping to not disturb my wife, Sherry. I softly close the bedroom door.

The house is still dark, but I know the path well from the living room, through the dining room into the kitchen. The familiar soft creaks of the hardwood floor confirms I am on the correct course.

Soon the comforting smell of fresh coffee brewing fills the room. I grab a cup, step outside into the gathering morning and gingerly lower myself to sit on the back stoop. Too much kneeling while weeding the garden has brought on bursitis in my right knee. My hips – I’ve had two new ones in the past 18 months – ache a little.

I also know what’s causing my restless mind. Every 4th of July since 2020 brings back memories of my father, who died on that holiday in my arms as I was unable to resuscitate him. I had responded to a call of distress from my mother and hurried next door. He was 83.

I don’t blame myself. His life was a life well-lived and it was his time to depart for his next journey. An experienced emergency room doctor would have had the same result.

But his passing is a sharp reminder that life moves on. The house where I grew up now belongs to another family. Mom lives in an elder care facility. Most of the farm has been sold. What was once is gone.

I miss the summer mornings when at this time of the morning I would have been walking across the creek to bring the dairy cows in from their night pasture for milking. I miss the smell of freshly-mown hay that would be raked, baled and put up for storage in the barn. I miss beating the heat on scorching summer days when we would build earthen dams in the creek. I miss breakfasts on the back deck overlooking the valley as Dad planned the day’s chores.

I miss what are now memories that briefly hang and then burn away like the morning fog.

The morning silence was interrupted by the gentle call of a mourning dove.

“Coooo-woooo-woooo. “Coooo-woooo-woooo.” Sitting on the power line that runs to the old dairy barn were a pair of doves. Then I heard the whistling sound of another take off. A single dove landed on another power line.

Mourning doves are mainly monogamous and have strong bonds. They are relentless in working together to build nests and raise broods – as many as six batches of two fledglings every year.

The doves perched in silence but their presence spoke volumes. The message became clear.

A spirit of peace descended. My heart lifted. Yes, the past is gone. But not forgotten. Tomorrow awaits.