I relish the sunrise anytime—fall, winter, spring, summer— just like I can enjoy a good steak, regardless of the season. But summer puts some extra jam on the biscuit: in summer, or even spring, I can step outside and at once be enveloped by the sun’s aura as it awakens my little corner of the world, complete with birds chirping and cows bellowing, announcing the arrival of a newborn day
I can’t say I remember my first sunrise viewing, although Western Oklahoma, where I grew up, has some mighty fine ones. In high school, I worked one summer on a farm, the job gratis of one of my buddies, whose dad happened to be the farmer, and who was, thankfully, merciful to my ineptitude as a farmhand. I wasn’t a slacker; it’s just that I wasn’t savvy to the workings of a farm. Nonetheless, arriving early, with the sweet smell of wheat hanging in the air and the rumble of the diesel-powered tractors providing background music, we planned the day’s work, and then, there it was: that red ball of fire rising on the eastern horizon. It was more invigorating to me than a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. The sunrise wasn’t the prelude to the main event for me; it was the highlight of the day: when it came to the actual work, I’m quite sure I was more of a liability than a help.
Years before that, I heard my 3rd-grade classmate, Don, tell the story of his first sunrise. We all sat in our desks, anxious about the new school year, or at least I was. The teacher gave us that usual assignment on the first day back, you know, the one where everybody tells what they did on vacation. It was supposed to be a warm-up exercise to get acquainted and help us relax a bit, I suppose.
But on that particular day, it was something of a life-awakening moment for me. Don and his family had been on an adventurous trip, or so it seemed as he told the tale, to parts unknown. I have no recollection if it was to the desert of Arizona or the mountains of Colorado. But I do know he had an unmistakable gleam in his eye as he told how they had been traveling in the car so early one morning that he had awakened to see the sunrise. That little tidbit was, for me, the most exciting episode of his entire vacation. I instantly wanted to race out of that classroom, travel somewhere on an open highway, and awake to the sun’s rising. “The sunrise,” it occurred to me, “how many times have I missed it?” I decided I’d get up extra early the next day, run outside and shout, “Good morning, Mr. Sunshine!”
But, I slept through it again.
The years passed; my classmates and I would grow together and drift apart. Don’s family split up, somewhere along the way, as did others. I wondered, years later, watching how life has its way of knocking the sunshine out of a child’s eyes, if Don’s sunrise vacation had been the highlight of all vacations for him with his family.
But there was that one day, back in 3rd grade, in Mrs. Jones’ class, when I saw the sun shining through that kid’s eyes, and I never forgot it. It kindled in me a desire to chase after it, longing to grasp it, breath it in, then exhale it, freeing it to come again, on any given morning, so that it could be there, birthing a brand new day in me, ever calling me to step out, with eyes wide-open, inviting its sunbeams to penetrate deep into my sun-starved soul.