Morning Person

I've never considered myself a morning person.

The morning went as it always did. The alarm declared the arrival of 6:30, and I oozed out of bed like an amorphous blob of gelatin, finally settling on my knees. After a bleary prayer, I fell on my face and lifted my body up and down a few times in a motion approximating a pushup. I dragged my back half toward the bathroom, returning a minute later with a burning urge to fall back into bed. Ninety-five percent of the time, the little devil on my should who gave such advice left disappointed. 

8:00 a.m. By this time, I shaved, showered, and dressed. I poured a bowl of cereal and nearly fell asleep again at the table. By 8:01, I sat at my desk, staring at the occupants of the desktop as though challenging them to distract me from my morning study. My picture of Jesus sternly admonished me without words to get studying, but my Darth Vader action figure was the shoulder devil this time. I could almost hear him telling me to go back to bed or I would feel his icy telekinetic fingers around my throat. I grabbed my scriptures and found the place where I had left off the day before. I was in 2 Nephi, the part where the author starts quoting long passages from the biblical book of Isaiah. I typically required moving passages of doctrine or at least gruesome scriptural decapitations to stay awake while reading, and Isaiah failed that test. Nevertheless, I pressed on like my pioneer ancestors through Isaiah's unyielding snowdrifts of text. 

9:00. I shut my scriptures and made final notes in my study journal. I had attained some degree of consciousness and had actually received some profitable insights. The missionary handbook dictated what was to come next: companionship study.

The desk next to mine was empty. I could hear Elder Davis' snores through the wall.