Day 4: Rain That Reveals
April 1, 2026
Sunrise time: Too cloudy
I had a thought this morning. How different this week would feel if I had chosen a different place to wait for the sunrise. I could have hiked up Memorial Hill each day. Earned the view. Watched the whole valley wake up at once. It would have been beautiful and efficient. A sunrise with a side of cardio.
But instead, I chose the wetlands by Deer Creek. Quiet. Flat. Sometimes muddy. A place that doesn’t try to impress you. And I’m glad I did. There’s a difference between watching a sunrise and waiting for one. I’ve watched plenty. But waiting at least 30 minutes for it to appear… that’s rarer.
The last time I really remember waiting was on Mount Sinai when I was a student at the BYU Jerusalem Center 25 years ago. We dragged ourselves up that winding desert trail in the dark, half-asleep, occasionally dodging camels who seemed just as inconvenienced as we were. And then we reached the top. Huddled together against the wind. Singing. Watching the sky slowly give way to light. It felt sacred. Like truth was breaking over the horizon.
Back then, I was mostly waiting for my life to begin. It’s a different kind of waiting now.
I woke up too early again, 4:30 a.m. Even the cat, who keeps nightclub hours, stayed asleep.
I needed to register Bode for BYU and panicked when I realized he hadn’t finished his Title IX training, which put a hold on his account. Trying to navigate all of that with a missionary… no bueno. So I completed the training for him (sorry, Jesus), then spent about an hour loading his classes into his cart. Today is his P-day, and when I talked to him, I kindly reminded him he owes me. Big time. He promised a hug at the airport. I’ll take it.
It rained all night. Not ideal for a sunrise, but exactly what we’ve been praying for. I traded in my dad’s old lumberjack jacket for my Arc’teryx ski jacket and rain boots and headed out for my Holy Week pilgrimage.
At the reservoir, I changed course. The wetlands felt too risky in the mud, so I followed the railroad tracks south. Eventually, a narrow path opened through tall grasses and led me to a small stream, fed from the Alpine Loop.
The birds were different today. Softer. Hazy. Like they were singing from behind a veil. The high notes carried, light and steady, while the lower voices chimed in only when necessary. A reverent little choir, less Tabernacle at Temple Square and more early-morning ward practice.
The clouds hung low over the mountains, blurring the line between earth and sky. You couldn’t quite tell where one ended and the other began.
I walked across the wetlands right up to the water’s edge. Raindrops fell in perfect circles, one after another. Small, steady evidence of abundance. In a place that has felt devastatingly dry this winter, the Lord was quietly restoring.
When the time came for the sunrise, there was no dramatic reveal. No burst of color. No fire on the water. Just daylight in the valley. Soft. Diffused. Enough.
And I realized I wasn’t disappointed because even without seeing the sun, the light was still there. And everything around me had changed because of what had fallen from heaven overnight. The colors were deeper. Richer. More alive. Maybe that’s part of the lesson in waiting.
Sometimes the miracle isn’t the moment the sun breaks over the horizon.
Sometimes it’s the rain that came before it.