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.