I decided today—the day of Resurrection—was the morning to go in search of the sunrise over Mt. Rainier. I’ve been thinking about it for a week, since I adventured over my hill and down the Hanaford Valley to make sure I knew the way to the view I remembered. (Yes, the best view for sunrise closest to me is from the pollution generating TransAlta plant—scheduled for shutdown—where Herself sits squarely east. At least I imagine it’s a good spot.)
There were no clouds, so I knew the sky from home over Mt. St. Helens wouldn’t be a spectacle; but I needed to leave at 5:45 and it was 6 before I suddenly leapt out of my chair to go; out the door at 6:05 in my pajamas. And then I missed a turn. Isn’t that always the way when we’re in a hurry?
Enroute I caught glimpses of Herself silhouetted against the pink glow, but when I arrived at my destination the valley was soaked in fog, obliterating the mountain. Not only did I not see the rising over Rainier, I missed the sky over my own mountain.
It feels like a lesson. We were late out of the starting block. We’ve missed a lot of turns. When you get in a hurry, it takes longer. It’s still too foggy to go out. But the haze will clear and we will rise again, if we but sit patiently at home and enjoy what is right in front of us for a while longer. It’s not time to leave the tomb just yet.
Metaphor aside, though, I’ll keep trying to catch the alternate rising, over the other mountain.