Each morning, in great anticipation, I watch it make advances on the overnight sky.  It is shy at first, lingering long behind the horizon, hesitating, it seems, to begin the day too fast, yet it steadily and gingerly moves forward, called by something strong within itself.
In the solace of solitude and silence, I note every detail in the coming of the light and the foretelling of the day that lies ahead.  Sometimes the light hides behind a haze that dims the rest of the morning.  Sometimes it peeks through a mist that sprinkles glitter on Schutz Lake and the seasonal landscape.  Sometimes the orange ball of fire speaks, like through a burning bush, of the glorious blue sky day ahead.  Sometimes clouds, like frosting on an angel food cake, add peaks of interest and character to the morning moment.  No sky is so beautifully painted as the sky that captures and reflects morning light through openings in the cottonball clouds.
Although it has happened 365 days of every year since I've been born, and every year since way before I was born, it never grows old to me.  And I never have enough words for it.  It is impossible to speak adequately about the overwhelming beauty of the daily morning glory.  It is always new, always welcome, always a wonder to behold.  Maybe it is that way for you, too. 
It seems to be understood that, although the light is revealed to us each day, we are simply not capable of grasping all of it at once.  We need repeated mornings for continued discoveries.  I agree with the adage that repetition is the mother of all learning.  We are a body of slow-minded creatures compared to the Creator Himself but, thankfully, He has a soft spot for us, and pounds of patience.  One morning at the end of the road we can be assured that the biggest discovery of our lives will occur, and we'll be aghast at all that we have missed despite the repetition.   It will, more than likely, be another moment of inadequate words.
Then the phone rings and brings me back to a different reality, one that demands audible and written words.  I am required, first of all, to find the phones.  Sometimes they fall between the cracks of the couch or the piles of pillows.  Sometimes they're on a window sill in the bathroom or on the carpet by the fireplace.
Not too many years ago that was never a problem.  There was only one phone at home, and it was always hung up on the hook where it belonged.  And when we heard two shorts, we knew it was for us.  If it was a long and a short, or a short and a long, or one long, it was for somebody else.  That didn't mean our phone necessarily stayed on the hook where it belonged, however. 
Some of you may recall the term "rubbernecking," so called because necks were stretching like rubber across tele-phone lines into someone else's business.  I believe it should have instead been called "family entertainment and education" because it was live, unedited, and unrehearsed, sort of like a vaudeville of voices, and it revealed facets of the human condition not found in college and university classes.
So I continue to search for my phones, chasing hither in a dither, up the stairs and down, to no avail.  They hang up.  I missed the call.  Finally I submit to the pager button on the phone's cradle and follow the beeps to find a phone tucked next to the scanner in my office. 
In five minutes it rings again.  "Hello!  Good morning!"  I say.  "I'm here.  Don't hang up!"
Then the other person says.    "Ms. Orsen?  You've won a three-day package to Breezy Point.  All you have to do is come and listen to our presentation at The Mall and spend a little time with us." 
I hear myself scream into the almost dead batteried phone, "Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind???  If I had three free days I wouldn't spend it with you!  I'm doing a newspaper, for goodness sake, and I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet, and I don't have a thing to wear, so go make snowballs!"
Gosh, it's almost Christmas.  Where did that nastiness come from!  This is a most lovely time of the year, after all, when shepherds watch their flocks by night and all is calm and all is bright and joy to the world.
Now where's the other phone!  I punch the pager button again, and follow more beeps to the porch where I was watching the sun go down last night.  It was absolutely gorgeous, just like it was the previous night, and the night before that night, with the sharp silhouette of tiny tree tops pointing into the horizon, and the shimmering light bouncing off Stieger Lake in the distance.
Each evening, in great anticipation, I go to the best windows in our house to catch the closing of the day.  The closing is much faster than the opening.  The closing doesn't hesitate.  The great light sinks like a ship with a fast leak and disappears in a blink.  When the big bright orange ball of fire is behind our world once again, the afterglow is totally amazing, breathtaking, and I'm speechless at the stupendous sight of it.  It keeps me long at the window.  Each evening it's a new painting, always fresh, and I'm filled with the wonder of it.
Then finally it's time to rest a while.  The light has done its work for the day and shined on everyone, especially those of good will.  Thank you, God, for the sunrise and the sunset and for your Light born into the world at Christmas time.  The miracle of it almost leaves me speechless.~Sue