Faith and the Morning Sun

This week, rain dripped from gutters with the steady pace of a metronome. It was soothing but also slightly sinister like the rhythm in an Alfred Hitchcock film just before the murder. Under the charcoal rubbed sky, trees were black and arthritic with branches bent in pain, and the grass was drowning. Far worse, the sun was gone, and I rely on it. I have faith in the morning sun the way others believe in God or a spiritual practice. Sitting with the sun feels like the yoga stretch that releases tension, only better. Or holding a newborn baby.

Imagining the morning sun behind the biggest bowl of grey milk clouds, I can see the spot, just above tall azaleas, where the sun would sneak its first good peek at my garden. Some mornings I sit cat-lazy in our kitchen’s window seat and watch the sun anoint the counter with a spiritual glow. I feel a sense of awe and stunning peace in that stream of pale gold light. If an actual angel appeared, I wouldn’t be surprised.

When it rains day after day the sun becomes a matter of faith. You must imagine its place on the horizon and call on your soul for memories of its soothing power. I pray for many different things, including the strength to forgive and to love without judgment. Since the morning sun is my light, I also pray for the faith required to feel it in any weather.

Before the sun, books were my healers, like good parents or wise aunts. I love, and sometimes worship, the plants in my garden. When buds begin to plump in late winter, I can barely believe it’s happening. It’s feels like a miracle, and I’m so thankful. We can embrace faith wherever we find it. Every form counts in equal measure. My soul will always be with the morning sun.

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