When I wake up most mornings my first instinct is to go back to sleep. My bed is comfortable, my sheets and blanket are warm, and starting this week the rain is hitting the roof incessantly. Nothing makes me sleepy faster than the sound of rain.
I roll over. I want to go back to sleep. I want to stay warm and safe and cozy. I don’t want to get up, to go outside, to face a day I don’t know.
A day that is a dare.
It could be a good day or a bad one. I could win the lottery (highly unlikely) or get struck by lightning (almost as unlikely). I don’t know what’s going to happen. The only thing I know is that if I lie here and go back to sleep nothing will happen.
I have to dare to get up. To face what the day will bring. To live with all the joys and sorrows and risks that life entails. Never knowing if the next time I walk out the door will be the last time, or the 20,000th to last time.
But to stay here is to sleep. And that’s not living. I’d rather take the chance. I’d rather take the dare
Plus my daughter is standing next to my bed, and she won’t stop nagging me until I get up.
“Dad? Wake up Dad!”