looking through me

I leave for work in darkness. Some days the sun begins peeking over the horizon along the drive. I look for it every morning because the sunrise gives me hope. It paints beauty with wild abandon and no concern for its short duration. It helps me find my place in the day. It reminds me—in the best way—how small and inconsequential I am.

This morning I didn’t expect to see it. Layers of clouds hung thick and low. I doubted the sun could crack them before I was tucked away in my windowless cubicle, so I wasn’t even looking for it.

And then an inky purple-pink smudge snaking along the top of the mountains caught my eye. Nothing more than a sliver of color cleaved distant mountains from dense clouds.

When the freeway dipped lower, I lost the sunrise behind suburbia. But I wasn’t the only one missing it. Others were still asleep or inside buildings or driving a different direction or not elevated enough over their surroundings to see it, or they simply weren’t looking for it.

Yet whether anyone saw it or not—whether I saw it or not—the sun still rose. It’s what the sun does.

At that moment of reveling in the steadfastness of the sunrise I drove into a fog bank. The glimpse of glory was gone. All color was stripped away . . . except it wasn’t. I couldn’t see it anymore, but the sunrise was as real that moment as it had been the moment before when my eyes could perceive it.

Like God’s faithfulness. On the darkest, cloudiest day when my expectations bottom out, God is faithful. On the brightest, clearest day when hope sings, God is faithful.

Whether I see it or not. Whether I acknowledge it or not. Whether my eyes are turned inward or Son-ward. Whether I wait with expectancy or turn my back. God is faithful.