Before I do

A Soul’s Morning Prayer

There’s a hush just before morning breaks, a tender silence where the veil between heaven and earth thins. The world hasn’t quite awakened, and neither have you. The room is still cloaked in shadows, the sheets warm with the softness of night’s last embrace. And in that moment, when eyelids flutter like reluctant wings and breath is slow and unguarded, a sacred opportunity arrives.

It’s the moment to whisper: “God, please get into my head before I do.”

Because the truth is, your thoughts are already stirring. They come like winds through a cracked window, carrying yesterday’s regrets, tomorrow’s worries, the endless noise of what must be done, who you must be, and what might go wrong. But this prayer… this soft, reverent plea… is a gate. A holy invitation. A spiritual lantern lit before the dawn. It says: Let there be You, before there is me.

Let God’s voice be the first ripple in the still waters of your mind. Let it echo like birdsong before the world’s machinery groans to life. Let it wrap around you like a shawl of peace before anxiety can fasten its claws. When God gets in first, everything shifts.

The racing heartbeat slows to a sacred rhythm. The weight on your chest lightens, as if invisible hands have lifted it. The to-do list, once sharp as broken glass, softens into purpose, not pressure. Your spirit, once curled tight in defense, unfurls like a morning flower to the light.

You begin not with fear, but with presence. Not with hurry, but with holiness. Not with doubt, but with divine truth. You taste the morning differently when God is first. The steam of coffee rises like incense. The floor beneath your feet feels like holy ground. The birds outside your window sing not just of daybreak, but of resurrection. Even the light through the curtains feels touched by grace, golden and alive, like a kiss from heaven.

When God gets into your head before you do, the entire day is rewritten. Anger becomes patience. Frustration becomes compassion. The stranger becomes a brother. And your breath, your simple, rhythmic breath, becomes a prayer in motion.

This isn’t just a lovely sentiment. It’s survival for the soul. It’s anchoring yourself to the eternal before the temporal can sweep you away. It’s remembering that your thoughts are not the truest thing about you. God’s thoughts of you are. And they are drenched in love. Dripping with mercy. Ablaze with purpose.

So tomorrow morning, when the stillness hovers and your eyes blink open into the newness of another day, don’t rush in. Instead, breathe deeply. Feel the quiet. Taste the grace in the air. And pray: “Come, Lord. Fill this space. Take my thoughts. Shape them in Your image. Whisper into my soul before the noise arrives.”

And when you do, watch how the day greets you. Not with chaos. But with clarity. Not with fear. But with fire from above.Because when God gets in your head before you do, you don’t just wake up.

You awaken.