The morning slips its finger under my chin and tilts my head to watch its silent show.
The dawn sky speaks to my soul as no other time of day can. Even mornings arriving cloaked in the pseudo-dreariness of gray. They are not silent, though a thick marine layer hides the display of light from view and insulates my little speck of earth in a safe cocoon. The colors are ratcheted down a few notches, the harsh edges are softened, the brilliance of the sun is filtered behind a soothing, blanket of gray.
A patchwork quilt of cloud wraps around me. We wait together with hushed expectancy.
The sun can no longer be held back. I peer through textured air. The veil of water molecules suspended in space overlays the trees and buildings in ethereal gauze even as light spills through its weakening defenses.
It’s a slow cleaving. One miniscule drop of condensation succumbing to the hot blade of the sun at a time. One ray of light slipping through the atmosphere—so direct I can see the line from it to me.
This sun comes closer . . . and the image shifts to that Son, the Light Himself, who loved me too much to remain at a distance. Full access to God meant the cleaving of the barrier to the holy of holies. Through the shed blood of Jesus safe passage to the Father has been restored.
So I embrace the gray mornings as a dim reminder of the Son’s unveiling of the Light—once . . . and for all.