Consciously trying to walk across the room as softly as a monk on his way to Vigils, I quietly unlock the back door and tiptoe outside, careful not to make a noise that would awaken Lori or our ever-sleeping dogs.
The stars at 4:30 a.m. glimmer, greeting me as if to say, “Finally, we thought you were never going to show up.” I breathe in the crisp night air. A cricket has been awake, making his presence known, but still hiding in the grass, inviting me to play hide and seek. And somewhere in the field behind, a night bird ( a common pauraque?) warms up for reverie. Or has she been singing through the night, disappointed that I almost missed her show, only catching her outro?
I walk to the street, stretching my arms upward, awakening my body to the day that’s still yet to be born, content to repeat Psalm 19 as I make my way back to the house, fixating on the stars whose silence shouts God’s Presence.
Stepping back inside, I wait for the coffee to brew, inhaling the rich aroma, and with a cup in my hand, I gently open the door again.
Soon the sun will begin to peek over the horizon, beginning its trek across the heavens. Dogs bark mournfully in the distance, or could they be coyotes?
And enveloped in that moment is THE moment: it’s still dark; the sun is about to proclaim the day’s beginning. Then, everything falls silent. At that moment, it seems like God wraps his love around me, like a shawl, pulling it and, with it, me closer, whispering in my ear the assurance of his love, “You are mine.”
I think of poet Mary Oliver’s words: “Why do people keep asking to see/God’s identity papers/when the darkness opening into morning/is more than enough?”
But I still want to capture this moment, wrap it up somehow. Though it’s one among many, it deserves to be exalted. Or so I think. So, I grab my phone and click a photo of the sun waking up. Then scurrying to the back of our house, I click a pic of the field that’s still sleeping, fog resting on it like a soft blanket.
I’ve got an idea: the picture of the peeping sun across the top of a postcard, split with the image of the foggy field below, like on one of those postcards you see while browsing at a truck stop: Las Vegas on the top half, an image of the desert cacti beneath it, with “Visit Nevada” emblazoned across the card. Only I’ll title mine “God’s Morning Greeting at Our House.”
But my photos disappoint; they don’t communicate what I feel; the images are not as sharp as I had hoped; they’re fuzzy, slightly off-center, ruining the effect I wanted. And whoever sees it won’t get it, anyway. They’ll snicker at my amateur effort to seize one of my moments, precious encounters when the finger of God touches my face.
And God must be snickering, too, I imagine. Wouldn’t God ask me what I was thinking, that I could ever capture even a glimpse of our moment together?
Then I step back inside, and Lori is waiting, and my dogs want out.
I smile, knowing God has once again infused me with his Presence. I am blessed, pictures or no pictures to prove it.
And that’s enough for me.
It’s picture-perfect.