As a two or three year-old, I slept in a room by myself. Early one morning, I lay in bed and saw this amazing light coming through the window. I climbed out of bed and pushed a chair against the dresser under the window. Then, began removing things from the dresser to the floor. When the dresser was empty on top, I climbed up and sat down to stare at the sky. The colors were amazing.

My earthly father walked into the room and asked me what I was doing. I pointed to the sky and said, “Look Daddy.” He pulled the shade down in an attempt to raise it higher. As the shade revealed more of the sky, daddy told me it was called a sunrise and it happened every morning. He left the room and told me to call him when I was ready to get down, he would help me.

I sat there until the sky turned blue. As I watched, I knew deep down inside myself that there was someone named God, who painted the sky just for me. Throughout my childhood, I rose early to see the sunrise and think about this God who could paint the sky so beautifully.

As I got a bit older and learned to unlock the back door, I often got in trouble for going outside and watching the sunrise in my pajamas. No matter how many times they told me not to go outside before they were up, I continued to sneak out and watch the sunrise. There was a perfect place between the carport and the azalea garden. I could see way down the hilly street, across all the neighbor’s yards and up into the expanse of the sky above me.   

As an retired woman, when I think of the glory and majesty of God, I still feel like that little girl enamored at the width and depth of the colors of a sunrise.