First Light

First light in spring is one of my favorite things.
Here in the midwest, in May and June first light makes waking up more of a pleasure than almost any other time of year.
The song sparrow in our pine tree seems to sing the light into our window; he is the first one awake, and must take joy in waking up the rest of the world.
What could be better than waking to music like that?
The light seems shy at first, but gathers strength quickly, boldly overtaking the corners of our bedroom, insistently calling us out of bed. We respond with more enthusiasm, perhaps, than we do when winter's later light takes its time in coming.
First light in the spring calls us, calls us to get up, hurry up, come see what is new in the garden, in the yard, in the creek – roses budding? buttercups in the grass? baby ducks taking an early morning swimming lesson?
What was the real first light – the light God called into being with a word – like?
Did it wake up excitement in Him? Did He savor it awhile, or did it call Him to hurry up and create something else? Did that first light shine with possibility, too?
Lying in bed, watching first light move across the curtain, then the ceiling, I wonder about that other first light, and the One who created them both, and my heart sings along with the song sparrow.

Graduation Notes

Emma graduated from 8th grade this evening.
Many schools no longer mark this milestone. An 8th grade diploma used to be significant; it used to be the end game for a lot of students.
Now it's just one more stop on the educational road.
When Emma was 6 or 7 years old, we were out walking one evening after dinner. I was there to help with a new baby in the house, and we were ready to stretch our legs.
We walked across the road, choosing a paved trail that led us past a lagoon where trees hung over the trail on one side and into the lagoon on the other. Before we got to the lagoon, though, we could see something seemed amiss: the trees appeared to be hung with something white, as though older kids had tee-peed them.
As we got closer we realized the something white was white cranes, perched on every limb and branch they could find. There was a hush over the lagoon; only our footsteps sounded in the early evening air.
Suddenly the cranes – all of them – took flight. They lifted into the air like a cloud, momentarily blocking out the sky. The trees turned green again, and the cranes were gone.
Emma and I looked at one another, speechless for a moment. Then she said, “Grandma, I won't ever forget this.”
It would have been easy to chalk up the cranes as one more learning experience, to launch into a lecture about their feeding habits or instruct Emma in the fine art of careful observation. I didn't have the heart for it, though.
Moments like that, moments of wonder and beauty - well, they are what they are. Whether it's a graduation or a wealth of cranes, all you can do is hold your breath at the wonder of it.