At this time of year, alarm clocks seem to go off during the middle of the night. But we have to get up and get the day started, even when it looks like midnight outside.
So, I climb out of bed and make sure my high schooler is awake. I ask him what he wants for breakfast and lunch, and then creep into the kitchen without turning on the lights.
In the darkness of the morning hours, I don’t want to wake our pet finches, whose cages are right in the thick of things. They love waking up to start their day. But it’s healthier for them—and quieter for me—if they wake up with the sun rather than the electric lights of the house.
So, I fumble around a dimly lit kitchen, reaching for bowls and pans, opening a can of soup, finding the right cereal, putting a kettle of water on to boil.
The first light comes from the oven range, the red on the burners of our electric stove. That gentle glow brings warmth and comfort to the darkness of the kitchen. I have just enough light to see.
There’s a stillness to the dark, even when you’re rustling around to get ready for the day. And it’s in those moments where I find the clarity of the day that lies ahead. I think of the projects and meetings on my schedule, how I need to end my workday picking up a child from school. I try to remember who needs to bring a trumpet today, whether it’s gym day, and whether I might be able to convince anyone to break out the winter coats.
I also think of those we are praying for—those who are sick, those who’ve recently lost people they love, those who are expecting babies, and those who are carrying other crosses. Sometimes I find that prayer comes more easily in the dark. That makes sense. I think of bedtime, after you turn the lights out, when children remember all their questions and worries and wonders of the world. I am a child too, talking to my father.
In the darkness before the dawn, I reach for God. Who knows what the day will bring on these darkest days of the year? But there will be light. There might not be much, but there will be enough.
“God is the brightest of lights which can never be extinguished, and the choirs of angels radiate light from the divinity,” St. Hildegard of Bingen tells us.
As the first rays of sunlight begin to creep through the windows, I am struck by the newness and rawness of the dawn—the day God has created for us, the day we accept as a gift.
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