Each morning begins the same way. Before the world wakes, I wheel Grandma from her bed to the bathroom — a slow pivot from mattress to chair, from chair to toilet. Her body can no longer do what it once did, so mine lends itself to hers. This morning, her diaper slipped, and part of her movement fell to the floor. I saw the look in her eyes — the flicker of shame, the small whimper of someone remembering what it once meant to be strong. For a moment, the air held its breath. Then I heard myself say, “It’s OK, Grandma. It’s OK, Grandma. I love you.” Over and over. Until her face softened. Together we cleaned the mess, and I turned on her morning music. We sang to each other, as we do — two voices crossing the fragile bridge between generations, between dependence and care, between the human and the divine. When I went to lift her into the shower, I saw that part of her had waited — she had held the rest of her body’s release until it could fall where it belonged. That small act of dignity nearly broke me open. People imagine temples as places built of marble and light, but I’ve found one here — in the hush of a tiled bathroom, under the hum of morning music. Love is the incense. Compassion is the prayer. The floor may be wet, the work humble, but something holy moves through the room all the same. This is the temple of the morning — where devotion smells faintly of soap and courage, and where love, unadorned, does its quiet work.