I’m not really a morning person. Because of this, I can only count a handful of times that I’ve been awake for a sunrise – a few times in high school when we had youth lock-ins and didn’t sleep at all, or the couple of times we woke up on the beach.
One night last week, a few friends and I decided to make our way to the Brooklyn Bridge to watch the sunrise over the East River. We were already awake and had been celebrating another friend’s birthday, but we weren’t ready for the party to end. So we hopped in a cab and made our way downtown. When we found got to the middle of the bridge, we found a bench and camped out there for the next couple of hours. This had been on my NYC bucket list for months, so I was excited to finally cross it off the list. In the hour or so before the sunrise, I couldn’t help but notice the stars. I don’t get to see stars very often anymore, and I was stunned by my sudden awe of them. Then, the sun started to peak up over the buildings, and I found myself tearing up. The golden rays reflected off the buildings in lower Manhattan. The colors in the sky shifted and moved with the sun in a beautiful work of art. In the quietness of the morning, the whispers of hope from heaven flooded my heart. Night doesn’t last forever – the morning will come.
A few days later, my roommate and I found ourselves in Jersey, stargazing from the backyard. I think I repeatedly said “wow, look at all those stars.” The simple beauty of the night took me a little by surprise. Again, whispers of heaven flooded my heart. Even in the darkest of nights, there are glimmers of light and of hope.
Just the other day, my cousin and I set up a nice stargazing spot in my parent’s backyard. We had blankets and bug spray, and I was looking forward to another beautiful display. As we looked up, we realized there were too many clouds to see the stars. And I was unreasonably angry. “All I wanted was to lay here in the quiet and look at the stars,” I kept repeating. There were no whispers of hope. Instead, it was quiet and frustrating.
I know, it’s cliche to talk about seasons of our lives as “night” and “day” and to compare hard seasons to the night time. But there was something comforting about experiencing the Holy Spirit in this contrast.
In this season of emptiness and healing, I can feel a lot like I did the night I couldn’t see the stars – frustrated and disappointed. This season is darker than I’d like to admit and more confusing than I thought it would be. But there are glimpses of light. The stars don’t stay hidden behind the clouds forever. There are moments of deep joy and hope that remind me that morning is coming. The glimmers of light remind me of the times God has already been faithful, where He has already moved, restored, and renewed.
I wish our seasons of night ended like clockwork as they do in the sky. I want to plan for the sunrise and count down the hours until this season is over. But there will be a new day, a new season. And when morning comes, oh how beautiful that will be. When the pain and sorrow of the night begin to fade and the light of renewal and restoration begin to shine, what a testament to the goodness and the faithfulness of God.
I’m learning to mourn what needs to be mourned. I’m learning to be when I just want to do. I’m learning to stand in the face of darkness. And I’m holding on to the hope that light will shine again.