My iPhone says sunrise is at 7:10. It's 7:03, and I look out toward the mountains. There's no sign of the sun.
It's dawn, and the light is rising. But thick, grey clouds cover the sky and the usual bright orange glow to the east.
I don't always wake up before the sun. But when I do, I anticipate it's rising. Something in my type A self derives an inordinate degree of satisfaction from saying I saw the sunrise. It's kinda like getting the cool 10k t-shirt before the race. I already have bragging rights to this day.
So sitting here in the grey dawn sans sun . . well it's like getting to check in at the race and finding out they ran out of t-shirts. Major bummer.
I want to see the glow that rises up before the orb. The hot orange promise of a fresh, new day warms me to all the inevitable challenges that will rise with the sun.
Yeah, I know it's there either way. The light testifies to that. And I ask myself if I can be content with light.
My Bible sits open on my lap beside my current study and pencil. Each time I open it I have hopes of seeing the sunrise here too. And many days I do.
It crests between the words and begins to glow. My heart feels the warmth and my mind wakes up with the illumination. By the time I'm done here, it's a bright new day and I'm feeling pretty awesome about me and Jesus.
But some mornings, it's just light. Enough to chase away the dark, but the sky is still grey. And I ask myself . . can I be content with light?
No warm fuzzy feelings. The chill of life's trials right there beside me on the couch. But the light undeniably right there in my lap. Truth illuminating the grey just enough to take the next step.
It's 7:20 now. I take one more hopeful look out my window to the east. And my day begins.