I am enchanted by the sky. My kids laugh about this fixation, and the myriad of photographs I take of cloud formations streaked with sunbeams. When I am driving, I will often pull over to the side of the road to whip out my phone and take yet another picture of the wonder above me.
This vast expanse is calming to me. I get lost in it, in much the same way that I get lost in the rhythmic lapping of the waves when I am near the ocean.

But Tennessee is land locked, so I turn my face to the sky. Perhaps I am drawn to whatever is beyond that which I can see.

My father died six years ago. And yet he is very much alive. I know this for a fact, and I feel it in my spirit. He lives in a realm I cannot see, because it is just beyond the confines of physical reality-just beyond the sky, so to speak. When I peer into the perfect blue horizon, I often wonder if he is somehow looking back at me from that place. I wonder what the sky looks like from that other side. If anything, I imagine it is even more glorious than the firmament we consider.

I know a bit about the science of the sky, but just a bit. We studied it in school of course, atmospheric layers and light reflection and refraction. My first adult job was doing the nightly weather report for a local television station, so I learned more about pressure systems and fronts and air currents and such. But it is not the science of the sky that moves me.

It is rather the nature of the sky-the marvel of this ever changing yet oh so constant beauty around and above me. The sky helps me keep life in perspective. It makes me feel very small, in a good way. It encourages me to look up, and it reminds me to look beyond.

A few weeks ago I stood on a beach in the very early morning for over an hour and watched the sun rise.  I did this for two reasons. First, our hosts at the beach lodge had told my husband and me to make sure we saw the sun rise over the water. “It starts at 5:30,” they offered.

The second reason was the voice in my head that has been gently reminding me for months now, “Don’t miss the morning.”

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a morning person. Something in my creative juices wakens around ten o’clock in the evening and keeps my head spinning with ideas far into the night. Mornings normally find me hitting the snooze button and groggily stumbling into the kitchen to make coffee.

But on this particular African morning, I willingly rose at five to dress and head out to the beach, not wanting to miss the morning.

It began softly. The sky turned palest gray where all had been black. Pale gray took on rosy peach tinges then melted into softest blue. I thought about the first chapter of Genesis. The creation of Light precedes the creation of heavenly bodies, including the sun. Light has a far more powerful source. Every morning is a reminder of that. The Light appears well before the sun. But I digress.

I stood on the beach-really WE stood on the beach, because I was with my husband-for half an hour watching the sky change colors before the sun ever appeared. And when it did, it was a tiny blip on the horizon, a red-orange orb being plucked from the lake. It was SMALL, and seemed to part from the water reluctantly before rising, ever so slowly, into the morning sky. The slightest rosy sunbeam streaked the water.

So that’s it, I thought. Not exactly life changing, but a lovely morning.

But as the sun continued to rise, it grew exponentially larger, and the pale reddish-orange turned deep and fiery red, then brightest gold, then yellow, then searing yellowish white.  I couldn’t stop watching the transformation. The beam across the water became a shimmering golden highway of light so bright it hurt to look at it directly. The surface of the lake sparkled red and yellow and gold, and the water seemed to dance. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to cry. The beauty was overwhelming.

Village women walked by with loads of firewood skillfully balanced on their heads. Fishing boats glided through the sun-streaked water, making for shore. Quiet gave way to voices, distant shouts and laughter.  The day was full on.

It was hard to turn away from the water, but eventually we did, and made our way back up the hill for breakfast, pondering the possibilities of another day.

How many mornings have I missed? Oh, I’ve seen some magnificent sunrises, but I confess there have been far too few mornings in my life when I have let the beauty of a new day captivate my soul with its promise.

I am becoming an earlier riser. I don’t want to miss the morning.