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.