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.