Blazing Grace

God's First Orchestra of the Day

The rising sun casts a pink-orange glaze through my curtains, waking me. My alarm goes off only a few seconds later and I quickly silence it. The sky calls to me. “Hey Siri, what time is the sunrise?”

“The sunrise occurred at 6:58 today.” So, that explains the burst of color.

I could stay tucked into the warm covers, or I could experience God’s first orchestra of the day. I arise.

The sky is backlit. Pinks and yellows and burning oranges melt into the clouds now peeking over my landlord’s roof. How is the world so beautiful? And why do I rarely see it?

A plane is on its way to land, most likely a student from the aviation academy if he’s flying in that direction. Or she.

Suddenly, the bottom of his aircraft is on fire. I catch my breath as the lower half of the plane blazes light. My mind reels for a split second, wondering at the impossibility of a sunrise being hot enough to spontaneously combust student pilots.

But the color dies as quickly as it came. Ah. Only for a moment, the plane and its captain reflected glory. So brief, yet permeating.

A different flying machine banks toward my right. A hawk, is it? Or maybe a seagull? No, definitely a hawk. It’s also on fire, but just barely. The color is more of a dull smoldering. Watching it catch the breeze, flap a few times, and sail again, it looks practiced. I’m sure it has spent a lot of time gliding on glory. It absorbs the flames better than me.

I’d like to be like that bird one day. Able to see God’s grace in physical form and feather its edges, unphased. I’d like to absorb a bit of that magic.

But no. I will never be unphased. I’m not an experienced hawk, but even if I was, I couldn’t float along without a backward glance at creation.

I’m minuscule but I’m breathing. The sunrise on my cheeks hasn’t set me ablaze yet. I want more of it. I wonder how much of God’s glory I can take. When will I have to turn into the rock, my back a wall to His passing presence?

Maybe Ole Hawkeye is onto something. Gaping into the heart of the orchestra is a risky thing. The conductor could spin at any moment, placing me squarely within His fiery gaze.

Alas, I can’t help it. Nor will I ever. I will stare and stare into the seats of His grandeur, music seeping into my bones, until His arms fall and the outro begins.