Sunrise at L's bend

I live in an L-shaped road, in which the Society owns various properties. For four years I lived almost at one end; but then, a few months ago I moved to another house, less than 200 paces away. Only 200 paces, but a world of difference; it even differs from my lockdown home, only two doors away. I am now at the bend of the L, with significantly different views from the front and back - especially the front, where I can now see what lies round the bend. Whereas before I had buildings directly in front and behind, now my views stretch much further, and there is a marked difference in the amount and quality of light.

I've recently taken to drawing back the curtains in the morning before I settle down to pray, and spending a moment surveying and savouring what lies before me. In winter it's still dark; streetlights are still on, and - even after a dry night - surfaces gleam damply. The sky is a dusky, denim blue, but in the distance the day's promise hovers over rooftops. A smudge of pink, perhaps, or the first slender stripe of white-gold light. Even on a cloudy, wet morning the area where that glimmer should be seems to be a lighter shade of grey.

And then, as I sit with God, the sun rises. Muted on cloud-filled days, when the only evidence is growing clarity, but on other days... oh, how the sun rises... slowly, gloriously, gently yet triumphantly. I don't watch it, but every time I glance up, I can see the changes it brings to the sky, and, therefore, to the dawning day. I can see the variations in the sky's colour... pink, red, gold, blue of various hues and intensities... and to its gradual lightening. Quite early on, there is a sudden moment when the lights go on in the building beside me, and then, later, when streetlights go off: now daylight, whether dull or clear, takes over, and - except on rainy days - pavements lose their damp sheen, and are simply, dryly grey. 

And so the day begins, with its own minor miracle; seen or unseen, the sun rises. Today the sun rose in hiding, but earlier this week it was resplendent, the extraordinary breaking through into the ordinary and everyday, bare branches transformed and thrown into sharp relief. Just as God's grace and extraordinariness can break through and transform so much of our lives that is bare or quotidian... just as God can do within each one of us, if we'd only allow him to.


Comments