My living room window is a huge, energy inefficient affair that lets in too much heat in the summer and too much cold in the winter.
But I will never replace it–because it also gives me a breathtaking view of the sunrise.
Every morning my body responds to an internal alarm set to the time I was startled out of bed by the deputy delivering the news of Dominic’s death. I cannot sleep longer. So I rise, make coffee and settle into my rocking chair with computer, Bible and journal close by.
I spend the dark hours writing, reading and sharing in community with other bereaved parents who wake to their own alarms, unable to fend off another day of living the reality of missing our children.
It is so quiet that the purring cat in my lap sounds loud in my ears.
Slowly other sounds join the chorus of daybreak–roosters challenging the sun to a duel, birds flitting from branch to branch, calling out the news that now is the time to get the worm.
I look up and the warm glow of sunrise silhouettes bare winter branches of giant oak trees and reminds me that the world still turns.
Seasons still change.
And I am still breathing.
Darkness hides things from us, it fosters fear and isolates. The black of night turns familiar territory into fearsome wilderness. The enemy thrives in the inky corners of unlit places.
But light disarms the darkness.
I venture forth boldly in the daylight where I would not set foot in the night.
So I treasure the daily reminder that darkness does not last forever, even the night has limits.
Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done: He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day and stamp you with approval at high noon.
Psalm 37:6 MSG
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