Day 7: The Light Between

Saturday, April 4, 2026 

Moonset: 7:10 a.m. Sunrise: 7:19 a.m.

Saturday.

The first morning I wondered if there could possibly be another lesson. I had seen so much already this week. Gold breaking through the clouds. Rain softening everything. Snow restoring what felt lost. Birds gathering, scattering returning. And yesterday, an eagle I still don’t quite have words for.

What more could there be? And yet, that question alone felt telling. As if God’s work could be exhausted. As if revelation comes in a single moment and not in layers that dig deeper.

For the first time all week, the sky was completely clear and cloudless. 

At 6:50 a.m., I glanced out my back window and stopped. Mount Timpanogos was glowing again, bright and white against the early morning. But it didn’t make sense. The sun hadn’t risen.

Then my eyes lifted. A full moon. Still holding its place. Still pouring light across the valley. The “lesser light” felt anything but lesser. It was bold. Steady. Unapologetically present even in the dawn. How many times had it been there this week, hidden behind clouds, still doing its work while I assumed there was nothing to see?

On the drive over, I listened to the new-to-me song, “Sunday is Coming.” 

“Friday’s good ‘cause Sunday is coming…
Don’t lose hope ‘cause Sunday is coming.”

I drove to the reservoir and paused near Tate Barn, trying to take it in. I snapped a picture, knowing it wouldn’t translate. Some things refuse to be flattened. They insist on being experienced and heaven knows my photography skills are lacking.

As I stepped into the wetlands, I realized I wasn’t looking east. For the first time all week, my eyes were drawn to the west–watching something end instead of waiting for something to begin.

I’ve watched moonrises here. Summer nights on paddleboards, laughter and glowsticks stretching across the water. But I have never waited for a moonset. There is something different about watching light leave. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t announce itself. It just… lowers. Quietly. As if it trusts that something else will take its place.

And in that brief, almost unnoticed space between the moonset and the sunrise, I was surprised to see the mountains were still lit. I had always assumed there was a handoff. That one light disappears and then the other arrives. A discernible dimming in between.

But there was no temporary dimming. Just a different kind of light.

I set my sunset timer for 7:30 a.m., but at 7:19 I looked up and saw the sun already breaking the horizon. Early, or maybe I was just more aware now.

It rose clean. Unfiltered. No clouds to catch or soften it. No dramatic colors stretching across the sky. The frost on the wetlands shimmered before surrendering. The water held reflections of mountains and my shadow returned.

Nothing about it begged for attention. It simply was.

The birds felt scattered, almost secondary to what was unfolding above. I drove to the east side of the lake, to my familiar paddleboard launch, and found my pelicans gathered in the distance, along with dozens more near me in the water.

But my mind kept returning to those ten minutes between when the moon set and the sun rose. Ten minutes that reminded me I am not standing still, even when I feel like I am. This earth is moving. Turning. Held in place by laws and forces I do not see, orchestrated with precision I do not control.

The sun and the moon feel like opposites. Day and night. Beginning and ending. But they don’t compete. They move in harmony. One yielding, one rising, both constant in their roles.

Today is Saturday. The in-between days of Holy Week following Jesus’ crucifixion. The days that must have felt unbearable to those who loved Him. The Light of the world, gone. Promises spoken, but not yet fulfilled. Hope present, but without proof.

Would I have stayed in that space?  Would I have trusted what I could not yet see?

Mary Magdalene did.

She stayed near the place where light had been laid to rest. And I wonder if it felt like those ten minutes.  Not empty. Not hopeless. Just suspended.  Held between what was and what would be.

This week, I thought I was waiting for sunrises, just like I’m waiting through some big question marks I can’t control. But I’ve been learning how to wait for something deeper. To trust that even when one light fades, another is already on its way.

 To notice that God does not leave the space in between empty.

 To believe that what feels like an ending may simply be a turning to the east.

The moon sets. The sun rises.

And in the quiet space between them, there is enough light to hold on to Him.

Day 6: When the Unimaginable Takes Flight
Friday, April 3, 2026 — Good Friday
Sunrise: after 8

It snowed overnight. It was 23°F (-5°C) when I left the house at 6:50 a.m., but the world already felt lighter. Not brighter. Just… softer.

Mount Timpanogos caused me to pull over mid-drive. Fresh snow, yes. But it wasn’t the snow. A full moon was still lingering, pouring its borrowed light across the valley. Lesser light, but it filled everything anyway for a few seconds before slipping behind the mountain.

How many mornings had I missed it while waiting for sunrises or had it been hidden behind the clouds?

I swapped my rainboots for winter Sorels. I had accidentally grabbed my still-wet gloves from the previous day’s misadventures but kept going anyway.

At the wetlands, yesterday’s slosh had turned to crunch. The same ground, different sound. A thin layer of snow and frost had settled over everything like a quiet reset. I crossed my makeshift bridge and followed the same path. Familiar now. Almost easy.

The sky had flipped again. Heavy clouds sat over the mountains to the east, but just above them, heavenly blue. I doubted I’d catch the exact moment of sunrise over the horizon, but if I waited longer, I’d see something.

I watched a pelican drift across the water, closer than it had been all week. I’ve spent days tracking it, as if I paid enough attention, it might mean something. Maybe it did. Maybe I just needed something steady to follow.

7:30 a.m. came and went. Sunrise, technically. But no sun.

And for the first time this week, I knew I needed to keep waiting. So, I crossed back over the wetlands to the perimeter trail of the Rail Trail and started climbing to a vantage point above the reservoir. The rail trail felt familiar under my feet, but different this time. Not chasing a view. Not chasing a workout. Just… moving. Trusting the light would meet me somewhere.

A few bends in, it did.

No pyrotechnics. No color. Just a pure, steady white breaking above the clouds. Not fighting them. Just existing beyond them. And it undid me a little. Because the sun hadn’t been gone. Not once this week. Not even for a second. Not ever. I just couldn’t see it from where I was standing.

I stood there longer than I planned.  Long enough to feel something settle.

On the way down, I had the most ordinary thought.  I forgot sunscreen. And it made me laugh. The same sun that once felt dangerous now felt like a gift I didn’t want to miss. The risk didn’t disappear. But neither did the need for light.

As I walked back down the trail, I paused to fondly take pictures of my wetlands and was excited to see my pelican again. This time, not alone. Three of them, cutting quiet paths across the water. 

And then, without warning, the trees in the foreground shifted.

The elusive eagle.

Not soaring at first, it simply appeared—low and deliberate, then rising, as if it had been there all along, waiting for me to finally look up.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to break whatever was happening.

It circled once. Then again, higher each time, effortless. I stood transfixed for fifteen minutes, just watching, crying. All week, I thought I was the one watching—waiting for sunrises, searching for meaning in the wetlands, following pelicans because they were steady and there. Never imagining I could see the eagle.

I had to wait longer this day to see the sunrise above the mountains, above the clouds. I climbed, paused, waited. And then the light found me—in the climb, in the pause, in the moment I stopped fixating on the familiar and finally looked up.

I walked back to the car in the same cold. 28°F (-2°C). Still freezing, but the frost was gone.

I had to wait longer this day to see the sunrise above the mountains and clouds. I climbed, paused, and lingered…and then, in that quiet stretch, the eagle appeared.

Good Friday has never felt especially bright to me—a day of tension, sorrow, and unfinished stories. Yet even on a day that remembers loss and betrayal, patience can bring a view far beyond what you imagined. The reward, when it comes, is fuller than you ever dreamed.

Day 5: Glitter in the Storm

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Sunrise: Too cloudy

I usually arrive at Deer Creek Reservoir about thirty minutes before sunrise. Today, I was running a fw minutes late. Light rain fell, the sky heavy with clouds, and the wetlands promised mud, so I parked a few hundred meters down at Tate Barn and stayed on the north side of the reservoir. Crossing the fields, I kept an eye on the Heber Creeper’s railroad tracks lining the west side of the lake. They would become important later. 🙂 

Wearing my trusty rain boots, I thought I knew these wetlands. I was wrong. One step into what looked like a shallow puddle, and the ground betrayed me. Whoosh. My left leg sank up to my hip, and suddenly I was wrestling with the mud like it had a personal vendetta. I grabbed clumps of grass, pulled, flailed, and somehow, finally, freed myself. Boot half full of mud, jacket smeared, phone buzzing madly in my pocket, I stood soaked, muddy, and smelling faintly of wetlands mystery foam.

Cold, wet and ridiculous, I laughed at the mess as I continued walking across the waterlogged pasture to the wetlands.

Slosh, slosh, slosh.

The entire sky was dark, heavy with rain and clouds, except for one narrow sliver above the eastern mountains. Pelicans floated at the far end of the lake, while a small group of birds gathered closer, oblivious to my soggy, shivering self. Rain fell all around, yet that tiny corner of sky held its ground.

And then it happened. Pure gold. Electric. Glittering. The sunlight forced its way through the navy-blue clouds, illuminating everything directly beneath it. A deliberate, impossible ray—a glitter bomb in the storm. I stopped, soaked and muddy, boots squelching, and just breathed it in. Even in the chaos, there was this miraculous, golden light.

Eager to avoid the Mordor sinkhole, I wandered the wet pasturelands for what felt like forever, boots sloshing with every step, scanning for an escape route. I knew if I could just make it to the railroad tracks, I’d be home free. A deep irrigation stream blocked the way, but eventually I spotted a narrow drainage pipe under the tracks. Not exactly the grand exit, but I scrambled up the steep, muddy embankment tangled in bushes, feeling victorious—and very, very muddy—on my way back to the car.

 At first glance, the day could have seemed a total bust: rain, mud, and many misadventures. And yet, that narrow corner of gold piercing the navy-blue clouds reminded me that light can appear in the most impossible places. 

Maundy Thursday carries its own weight. On that day, the Savior shared the Last Supper, washed the Apostles’ feet, and gave the new commandment to love one another. Betrayal shadowed the evening, and His Atonement began in Gethsemane. I felt those final hours deeply when studying at the BYU Jerusalem Center, tracing His path from the Mount of Olives, through Jerusalem, to the trial, and finally the Garden of Gethsemane. Love and fear, devotion and sorrow—they were all there, intertwined. Easter morning brings light, hope, and healing, but Maundy Thursday is a quiet reminder of the weight carried before the dawn.

That evening, I volunteered at the Lindon Temple open house. My four-hour shift started on the second floor, greeting and guiding people as they reached the top of the stairs and directing them along the tour. From that landing, I had a glimpse into the Celestial Room and, just behind me, a painting of the Savior holding a lamb, a few sheep gathered around Him. It was hard not to keep looking back at it between groups.

In front of me, rising up the stairwell, was a four-story stained-glass linden tree. Its branches wound upward like a trellis, blossoms opening with each floor until they formed an arch of flowers at the top. I was told the design reflected a helix, like DNA, the human family intertwined. It felt fitting. All of us moving upward, connected in ways we don’t always see.

Outside, the storm was still holding on. And then, at sunset, something unexpected. Light broke through just enough to catch the linden berries in the glass, turning them a soft, glowing gold. Not dramatic. Just enough to notice if you were paying attention. My second gold moment of the day.

Photo: Celestial Room, Lindon Temple. Credit: Church Newsroom

After a couple of hours, I jockied my supervisor for a shift inside the Celestial Room.  It’s one of the most sacred rooms in the temple. A place that represents the presence of God, where everything invites stillness, reverence, and a chance to simply sit and feel close to Him.

She placed me just inside the entrance right next to a crystal bowl. At perfect toddler height.

So there I stood, trying to feel reverent while also internally committing to a new mission. No one is breaking anything in the Celestial Room on my watch. Not today. Not ever. It wasn’t exactly the spiritual moment I had imagined as I gently redirected a steady stream of very determined, very mischievous children.

But then I moved to block the bowl from view. And everything changed.

I began to notice people.

Not just that they were entering the room, but what happened as they did. Just before, they were themselves. Talking. Looking around. Carrying whatever they had brought in with them. And then they crossed the threshold. And something softened. It wasn’t just what they saw. It was what they felt.

Reverence settled in. Shoulders dropped. Voices hushed. Most people looked up at the chandelier and the two-story stained-glass window of linden trestles—different from the one in the stairwell, but climbing blossoms reached skyward in a similar, graceful pattern.

 A few paused, as if they weren’t quite sure what had just happened, only that something had. I could tell who had never been in a Celestial Room before. There was a kind of wonder that couldn’t be rehearsed.

One little boy couldn’t stop smiling. A baby pointed at everything in delighted confusion. “Dat… dat… dat.” And one young girl leaned in and whispered to me, “This is so pretty. This is my favorite part.”

And I realized I wasn’t there to manage a room. I was there to witness something sacred unfold in real time.

The day had started in mud. Literally. Rain, cold, a sinkhole that nearly took me out, and a long, wandering path just trying to find my way back. It felt messy. Disjointed. A little absurd.

And yet, right in the middle of that chaos, there had been that narrow, impossible corner of gold breaking through the clouds. Not enough to change the whole sky. Just enough to remind me it was there.

And here it was again. Different setting. Same quiet truth.

Light doesn’t always arrive all at once. It doesn’t always clear the storm or resolve the mess. Sometimes it simply meets you where you are. Small. deliberate. Enough. Grace. 

This week, I thought I was waiting for sunrises, just like I’m waiting through these big question marks I can’t control. But maybe what I’ve been learning is how to recognize light before everything clears. To trust it, even when it feels partial. To stay, even when the outcome isn’t obvious.

Because whether in a storm-soaked wetland or a quiet, sacred room, He is there. Not always changing everything at once.

But always, quietly, enough.

Day 3: Light before the sun

Tuesday, March 31

Sunrise time: Too cloudy

My three-year streak of questionable sleep continues. At least I’m consistent. 4:30 a.m. again. I lay there for a bit, then gave in. Prayer. Music. Email. Social media. 

Flies of Light

Somehow, I ended up reading about a lightning bug farm in Utah County. Actual fireflies in Utah at the Thompson Century Farm. What? Immediate bucket list item. I even requested to join their Facebook group before I was fully awake.

Here’s what’s remarkable. Utah’s high desert is not a natural home for fireflies. They thrive in warm, humid environments. Think the American South. Long summer nights, dense vegetation, consistent moisture. Fireflies depend on that kind of habitat. Damp soil, standing water, and dark skies where their light can actually be seen. Which makes their presence here… remarkable.

It means something intentional is happening. Conditions are being carefully created and protected. Darkness preserved. Moisture sustained. A whole environment quietly working together so something small and fleeting can shine. 

A Glimpse of Narnia

On my way to the reservoir, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. The streetlight in front of my neighbor’s house flickered—dimmed, nearly went out, then came back. Solar-powered. Trying to shine, but it wasn’t quite light enough yet. It felt like something out of The Chronicles of Narnia with that lone lamppost glowing in a land where it is always winter, never quite morning. Not bright enough to change everything.  But still—lit.

It was the flickering that stayed with me.  Because sometimes the light doesn’t feel steady. It wavers. It strains. It almost disappears. And yet it comes back. Not because the darkness is weak, but because the light is persistent.

The Reservoir

A storm is rolling in on Wednesday and Thursday. After months without meaningful precipitation, I am here for it but was hopeful I’d have at least one more clear day to wait for the sun. Nope. Grey skies. No break in the clouds where the sun should be rising. Still, I went.

I decided to push farther today, toward the reservoir. The wetlands were muddy and I needed to find a way across the stream. Easier said than done when your long-jump days are behind you and one leg is still recovering from surgery

I headed toward what I thought was a bridge but as I got closer, I realized it was a beaver dam. Beavers are excellent engineers, just not for human crossing (not exactly OSHA-approved). I found a narrow stretch, committed to the jump, and landed squarely on my bad leg straight into the mud. Which, under normal circumstances, is fine. A little mud never hurt anyone. Unless you count the time Jamie and I nearly lost our lives on the Na Pali Coast last year, slipping through what can only be described as nature’s version of a death trap. 

Today felt a lot less dramatic. The birds were quieter. Even the Canadian geese kept their distance, flying away the moment they spotted me. The whole place felt hushed. 

I made it to the reservoir.

My two white pelicans floated further down the lake, calm and unbothered. I remembered when I took my brother Jade’s ex paddleboarding and she got stuck out there when the winds picked up. A kayaker towed her back in a dramatic rescue. Today, everything was still.

It was warmer than I expected. Calm before the storm. And yet the sky remained completely covered. No golden light. No dramatic sunrise. Just a steady, quiet light spreading through the clouds.

It was… different. Disappointing, at first. But then my mind went to Book of Genesis.

Day one: “Let there be light.” 

Light existed before the sun. Before it was ever organized, named, or fully seen. The sun, moon, and stars wouldn’t come until later, on the fourth day. God didn’t wait for perfect conditions or visible sources to create light. And standing there, under a sky where I couldn’t see the sun at all, there was still light. Soft. Diffused. Undeniable. It hadn’t disappeared. It just looked different.

I started walking back, realizing this was the first morning all week I hadn’t been wrapped in golden rays. No dramatic payoff for waking up early. No cinematic moment. And yet… it counted.

As I crossed the wetlands, I noticed a large log, a curiosity without any trees nearby. Could this work? It was definitely heavier than anything my doctor would recommend lifting right now. But also… it was a bridge. And that felt important. So I carried it. Awkwardly. And set it across the narrowest part of the stream. Perfect fit. A bridge where there hadn’t been one. 

It hit me almost immediately. Sometimes the sunrise doesn’t show up the way you expect. Sometimes the light is hidden behind clouds. But that doesn’t mean God isn’t still providing exactly what you need in that moment. No sun. But a bridge.

I kept walking, picking up bits of trash along the way. I noticed a pile of massive railroad ties near the parking lot that I couldn’t possibly move. And yet somehow, in the middle of the wetlands, there had been one log that was the exact size I needed, right when I needed it.

Driving home, the first song that came on was Daughter of Light from Strive to Be. And the thought settled in so clearly it almost surprised me. Light looks different when you can’t see it in the sky.

Sometimes it flickers. 

Sometimes it’s diffused. 

Sometimes it shows up as a bridge instead of a sunrise.

And always—because of Jesus Christ—it’s already inside you.

Day 2: Seeing with New Eyes

Monday, March 30, 2026

Sunrise time:  7:30 a.m.

My first day back to work after a two-week break felt like a slog, especially after waking at 3 a.m. and lying awake until 4:30. But just before my alarm, the birds began their chorus—a wake-up that usually annoys me. Today, I leapt out of bed.

I grabbed my dad’s warm Canadian lumberjack jacket and drove to the reservoir. Stepping out of the car, the first sound was theirs. The birds claiming the pre-dawn. Even on only my second morning, the newly revealed wetlands felt familiar, as if the landscape remembered me.

I followed their song through the reeds down to the water. Many moved in twos, scattering when I approached, and I felt a pang of jealousy. How easily they flew when uncomfortable and threatened. Free in the air, unburdened, unbound.

A photographer pulled up in the parking lot and tediously made his way through the wetlands. From time to time, I glanced over at him in disbelief—his camera pointed south while the sunrise waited to burn in the east. What was he doing? He was missing it. 

My attention returned to two white figures I’d first mistaken for swans—pelicans—floating in the quiet water, completely present, not worried about what the next hour might bring. I wanted in.

Beneath my feet, the reservoir’s bottom had emerged from the drought—mud and rust-colored reeds with a few sprigs of green, life thriving above the surface. Absence had created something new and unexpected. Curious, I found a path to an adjacent pond I hadn’t reached the day before, hopping over pockets of water.

I was so preoccupied with my explorations that I almost missed the sun as it rose slowly, a yellow fire spilling across the water. Warmth, assurance. I didn’t have long to linger before I needed to head home. It still burned just as hard as the day before but I didn’t let my gaze linger too long this time.

As I walked back to the car, clouds dimmed the light. And just like that, the golden kingdom vanished.

The photographer was back in the parking lot, and at this point, we were probably equally curious about each other. He told me he’d been unsuccessfully tracking a pair of eagles that had settled across the lake for the winter. It sounded incredible, but I’m not exactly a wildlife photographer. Spotting an eagle seemed way above my pay grade.

He asked if I came here often. I mumbled my answer that I was watching the sunrise all week. But on the drive home, as the sun reappeared—bright and bold—I realized what I should have said. Yes. I’ve lived here ten years. I’ve surfed, swum, paddleboarded, even cold-plunged this lake in the winter. 

And yet, only this week had I truly slowed down to wait for the sunrise. Only now had I really seen it. Only now had I begun to understand the quiet freedom in being present…and the trust that comes from watching the day unfold.

Day 1: Palm Sunday in the Valley

Sunday, March 29, 2026

Sunrise time:  7:31

Last summer, my friend Kelly King was walking through a very difficult chapter of her life. During that time, she received a simple invitation: slow down and wait for the sunrise. She chose how many days she would commit, then waited at least 30 minutes for the sunrise each morning.

It became transformative.

As she waited every day for something as constant and dependable as the rising sun, she began to feel peace. She began to trust.

There was something about watching the light return, again and again, that reminded her that God is just as constant.

I am walking through a season of deep, uncertain waiting—facing the possibility of upheaval while learning to trust in God’s timing. Early on Palm Sunday, I felt a quiet prompting to try it myself—each day this week leading up to Easter, in honor of Holy Week.

I decided I would wait for the sunrise at Deer Creek Reservoir. Since moving to the Heber Valley a decade ago, it’s quietly become the heart of our life, part of the view we wake up to every day from our window. I’ve surfed the lake at first light, paddleboarded in stillness, and kayaked under full moons. Jamie and I have a quiet, hidden spot for night swims, and I’ve even hosted a New Year’s Day cold plunge for a few fellow lunatics. I’ve spent countless hours hiking and biking the perimeter trail above the reservoir. Nearby, at Olympic venue Soldier Hollow, I’ve watched Bode race and spend seasons coaching in both skiing and mountain biking, all beneath the quiet watch of Mount Timpanogos.

It’s our happy place.

That Palm Sunday morning, I parked near the Soldier Hollow train depot and began walking toward the lake.

Because of the drought, the water has receded, leaving a landscape that feels almost unfamiliar. I followed a new-to-me path for a long stretch down to the water’s edge. What should be underwater is now exposed—wetlands where open water once stretched. Reeds and grasses grow in mud that used to be deep, and small pockets of still water remain, holding traces of life in this unexpected place.

The birds owned the pre-dawn. Egrets, pelicans, sandhill cranes, calling and clamoring, arced across the sky in flocks. Along the water’s edge, some moved in twos, a careful, timeless dance. Their voices rose loudest just before the dawn, filling the quiet with movement and life. The cold air felt alive with it.

I watched and waited for 30 minutes until….the grand finale.

I saw the sunrise first, not in the sky, but reflected in the water. Color came before light.

Slowly, the sun itself began to rise over the mountains to the east.

The valley was still cool and misty, but the light began to fill it. With that light came warmth, pushing back the cold in my fingers and toes. When the sun crested the horizon, it almost blinded me—pink, effervescent, dizzying. So bright I couldn’t look at it for long.

I turned to look west toward Mount Timpanogos, now fully ignited, and for the first time that morning, I saw my shadow stretched out in front of me.

And I thought of the words in Psalm 23 that have deeply impacted me these past few difficult weeks:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

We often talk about miracles—about Jesus walking on water. And He did.

But there is something sacred about the valleys, too.

There is still beauty there. And there are lessons we may not learn anywhere else if we trust Him.

 Even when the landscape of our lives has changed in ways we didn’t expect…

 Even when it feels like we are standing on ground that should be covered in something deeper…

He is with us.

Today, I was reminded that sometimes it’s in the waiting that life is most alive. And the warmth we’re seeking is already waiting for us—just on the other side of the shadow.

And His light always comes.