Sunrise

I work on the third floor of a red, brick box.

Every morning, Monday through Saturday, I get up before sunrise and drive across town. I park in the back parking lot and walk down to the door, use a key fob to let myself into the building and then (depending on the sounds its making) either take the elevator or climb the stairs (in the equally shady stairwell) to my office.

And every morning without fail, after I've been working for just a little while, I get up to stretch. I am still one of the only people in the office at this hour. So I go and precariously lean over one of my coworker's desks, pull open the blinds, and wait.

And every morning without fail, out the back window of my office and above the industrial, gray boxes and smoke stacks of Lexington's skyline, something beautiful happens.

Sometimes, it is the only beautiful part of the entire day. But it happens. Quietly and forcefully.

This past week I walked to the window and stood on my tiptoes to lean as close as I could to the window (over a desk and a heater and stacks of papers). Bonnie had just sent me a reminder to go and watch the sunset, and the most appropriate Psalm to accompany the morning's beauty.

My heart swelled that morning as I watched the heavy, gray sky being pushed back by light. As if it was being rolled away from the horizon. The morning sky, pink and orange and yellow, began to emerge from somewhere deeper. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere sleepy. But the light was powerful and substantive.

And the darkness was no match for it.

Moments like this, time stands still.

"God's glory is on tour in the skies, God-craft on exhibit across the horizon.
Madame Day holds classes every morning,
Professor Night lectures each evening.
Their words aren't heard,
their voices aren't recorded,
But their silence fills the earth:
unspoken truth is spoken everywhere."
(Psalm 19)