I don’t know yet if it’s still dark because I’m up earlier than usual or if it’s because the sky is completely covered with dense clouds or if it’s a combination of the two. I do know that I am up earlier than usual.
Looking out through this window, I can see nothing except three white lights and one pale orange, all posted at the height of telephone poles beside houses in Blair, Kansas. I hear the occasional whine and rumble of eighteen-wheelers passing by on Highway 36.
Many days begin like this with us believing there is more beyond the walls and windows of our lives than what we can immediately see. We trust that the old familiar trees and fields, the neighborhood houses, will all come to view as darkness falls away into the dawning of a new day. We are confident that no one has come in the night and stolen our world away. Such confidence is easier to hold when each morning continues to bring us the things that we have come to count on, when expectation and reality continue to share the same sphere.
Such is the way of the world’s customary confidences, the un-rattled routines that frame our lives. But when cancer calls, when tragedy sends the walls tumbling and catastrophe has changed our perception of our world, routine expectation and confidence shatter like skim ice dropped on concrete.
What holds then is faith. Something deeper, stronger, tougher, more firmly rooted in things unseen. Things that cannot be perceived until we wake to better light.