We rise early, in the dark, and shuffle through our morning’s worth of controlled chaos that is the much the same as yours but ours alone. We struggle into boots, jackets, mittens, and hats. I remind them, for the umpteenth time, that we are going to be late and I wonder why it is that we are always rushing. We rush to get ready, rush to get out of the door, rush to get to the classroom, with a stream of hurry-ups rushing from my mouth. What my heart wants to do is pull them in, keep them close, to sit together on the big couch in our pajamas and read a gazillion books to each other. It feels wrong to be heading out the door with my littlest ones when the sun has not yet appeared, but go we must and so we do.
Each clear morning as we drive across town to school the sun peeks over the horizon. Today it was spectacular, hidden at first behind clouds that were tinged with gold until it finally broke through to shine upon us and this little city we live in. The light glanced off the faces of the buildings in town: the library, the stores of our friends, the coffee shops and restaurants were all aglow. I pointed it out to Harry and Emma and we all watched, entranced by the first rays of the day. It was silent in the car as we took it in, but finally Harry’s voice broke the silence: “That part there in the middle - the brightest spot – that part is where God is.” The light changed and our car had to move along, but that moment stuck with me all day. I stopped regretting our early mornings and started to think about how if we had slept in and stayed at home in our pajamas I would have missed this glimpse into his soul. I might have missed knowing that he finds God in the sunshine.
Today, I am remembering that my children are the brightest spots in the middle of my life. I am slowing down to just be with them. And if we are perpetually late for kindergarten because we make a habit of stopping to watch the sun come up together, so be it. You can’t rush the sunrise.
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