The Beginning of Morning Sky Ministries
It is very early, quiet and dark. The moon is setting in the western sky as the sun is rising in the east. The veil of darkness is being lifted by the morning light, and I am walking north on the trail that leads to a bridge. To my left, the moon is reflected on the water of one of the seven lakes and it keeps appearing and reappearing through the leaves of the high branches of the trees along the shore.
It is a lovely scene, and I feel profound gratefulness, as I often do, towards the One who created beauty. When I reach the bridge, I stop, because as I look to the West and to the water below me, the scene becomes even more exquisite.
There is a stream that leads from the lake, under the bridge, and east into the largest lake behind me. But the water level is low now, and instead of flowing, the water in the stream is very still. It is guarded by land on either side. This still water is directly below me.
In contrast, the water in the lake to the west is open and breeze-blown, unprotected and agitated. The light of the moon reflects in the center of the lake, but it is fractured light, spread over the surface of the water. It reminds me of my turbulent emotions and fractured life. Between where I am standing and the splinters of light and the moon high in the dark sky, there are trees along the banks of the stream. Two are living and one is dead. Their branches are stark silhouettes against the still water.
But in this stillness below me, near me, I can see the complete and perfectly round reflection of the moon on the face of the water. The stream is not moving now. It is in a state of expectancy; it is sheltered and quiet. I want to find this place of stillness within me, a place of serenity and quiet power. I want to feel and see God’s reflection in my life in a more complete and vivid way, feel the warmth of His love, to know His will in the joy of morning, not just in the suffering of darkness.
I turn my face towards the source of light, the rising sun. The eastern sky is the color of a harvest peach, with no clouds in sight. The second-hand, reflected image of glory behind me, surrounded by the silhouettes of suffering will not be enough. I want to walk in the peach-colored dawn, begin to run in the rising light, and eventually learn to fly, with the sun reflected on my wings. The sun and the moon are both beautiful, but I place my hope in the bright warmth and promise of morning rather than the dark and familiar covering of night.