Note: I dusted off my old blog to share a piece of my journey as I waited for the sunrise during Holy Week. Previous posts:
Day 1: Palm Sunday in the Valley
Day 6: When the Unimaginable Takes Flight
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.
Up next:
Day 8: That Glorious Easter Morn!