There’s a room in this old rock building that is my home. It’s where I spend most every morning. I was worried when we moved here it would be too dark, with its west-facing windows. There’s hope for the day in the very first ray of sunlight, and I crave it in a way I can’t articulate.
Mornings and sunshine are best friends, though, like milk and cereal. It’s almost impossible to separate them. Somehow morning finds the sunshine for me and drenches my east-facing room in it. They do good work together. It feels magical. And it happens like this.
The glorious morning light filling my room is first received by glass windows across the street and is then reflected back to me through my windows. A gift being shared.
These days are often cloudy, with everything upside down and wrong side out. Sometimes we can’t find light anywhere. It’s like there’s this beautiful sunrise happening in the east, and we know it. We can imagine it. We’ve seen it before, but this time we’re facing west and missing the whole miraculous thing. We can’t seem to turn to face it. Our bodies won’t budge.
But then it happens.
A postcard from a friend. A voice on the phone. A FaceTime call with grandchildren. A scripture with a hand-written note beside it. A dog chasing its tail. An unexpected bear hug. A smile from a stranger. A squeeze of a hand. Feet splashing in a river.
Shared light. Sunshine reflected back to us—reminding us God loves us and sees us and knows us. Reminding us he hasn’t left us dangling here.
This morning I’m reminded of it once again, and I’m challenged. Because today somebody in my path needs some light, and I just happen to have some to share.