Dawn of a New Day

mnn.com

Editor's Note: Greg is a regular contributor to SeniorLiefstyle with his "Rhymes and Reasons" poetry. This article appeared in the Daily Herald, a suburban Chicago newspaper, for which he writes seasonal thoughts.

The day my dad died was actually night. The grandfather clock in the hallway had just chimed midnight. When the hearse arrived two hours later, a steady rain was falling in the darkness.

I stood on the front porch of my childhood home and watched the funeral director wheel the shroud-covered body of my pastor-father to the waiting car. Through a veil of tears, I watched the black minivan drive away.

That night I also watched for the dawn. More than ever before, I wanted the darkness of night to dissolve into day.

Whereas, a new day technically begins at midnight, it is dawn that provides the tangible evidence that morning has broken. My broken heart looked for a new day to arrive in hopes it would distance my heart from its grief.

I remembered the words of the psalmist who chronicled his own confessed longing for dawn. "Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning ..." (Psalm 30:5 NRSV). I resonated with his anticipation.

That overnight vigil 11 years ago was a turning point for me. I have never been a morning person. Late nights were more in sync with my circadian rhythm.

But that all began to change. I became much more drawn to dawn.

There's just something about daybreak that I have come to embrace. I have come to see that dawn is a mysterious moment when my perspective is calibrated.

The regrets of yesterday succumb to the expectations of a new day. It's like flipping a switch.

The dawn's early light was obviously meaningful to the poet who penned the lyrics to our national anthem. Francis Scott Key celebrated a victorious defense of Fort McHenry as he welcomed a new day.

First light also proved holy to the women who found Jesus' grave empty on the first day of the week. Dawn revealed a reason for hope.

As I contemplated my dad's death that cold and rainy November night, the approaching dawn was more than a predictable reality. The coming light represented the means by which I could see to navigate a new norm.

Life without my dad would be difficult, but I realized the separation would only be temporary. The first light of that first Easter guaranteed that.

I remember a children's book my girls enjoyed when they were small. The beautiful illustrations pictured the start of day in a busy city.

As the city awoke, birds began to chirp. Garbage collectors picked up refuse. Shopkeepers swept sidewalks in front of their stores. Bridge operators raised the movable spans to allow waiting boats to pass beneath. Commuters in cars began their daily drive to office buildings.

Every time I turned the pages of that board book for my girls, something in me responded with anticipation. I couldn't quite explain it at the time.

But through the years, it dawned on me. I finally understood my fascination with my girls' bedtime story. Dawn had become a symbol of hope. And hope is something that magnetically draws us no matter how many candles adorn our birthday cakes.

Just as Jesus' disciples associated dawn with death's defeat, I, too, have come to see how grief gives way to hope. Each day life begins anew. With each new sunrise, I have the chance to dance with new possibilities and refocus my gaze on what faith promises.

And in light of the current coronavirus pandemic, focusing on faith's promises is more critical than ever.

Although Holy Week and Passover finds us living in the shadows of an invisible enemy, the dawn's early light provides us an opportunity to celebrate God's penetrating presence that dispels the fog of fear.