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 8: That Glorious Easter Morn
Sunday, April 5, 2026
Moonset 7:13 a.m., sunrise 7:27 a.m.
I could see the eastern horizon from my room this morning. It was already light, the entire ridgeline brushed in soft pink. I didn’t hesitate. I was out of bed and out the door earlier than any day this week, eager for one last sunrise.
It struck me on the drive over. In one week, I had lived through every season. Drought. Sun. Rain. Snow. Freezing mornings and unexpected warmth. My dad’s old Canadian lumberjack jacket made one more appearance, steady and familiar.
On Palm Sunday, I started in running shoes. Then came the rain boots. Then winter boots midweek. Today, hiking boots. I knew I wanted to end with a climb. Outside, my neighbor’s lamppost flickered again. Like that lone light in Narnia—steady in the cold, quietly bridging two worlds. Not enough to change everything, but enough to show the way.
The full moon still lingered, higher now. I wasn’t surprised to see it. Just grateful.
But what stopped me on the drive was the valley itself. It looked like it was on fire. Steam rose from the fields and off the Provo River, that quiet collision of warm water meeting cold air, creating something visible out of what normally goes unseen. Pockets of mist hovered everywhere, soft and surreal, like the earth was exhaling.
It was cold again. Low 20s. Clear. Still.
I reached the reservoir and moved with a confidence I didn’t have earlier in the week. Across the wetlands. Over my makeshift bridge. Down to the water’s edge.
I paused for a moment, looking out. Not just at the water, but at the place itself. I had been quietly picking up bits of trash all week. Nothing dramatic. Just small things. The wetlands had given me more than I expected. It felt right to give something back.
Out west, the moon was finishing what it started. Yesterday, it dipped behind Timpanogos. Today, just slightly south, over a neighboring peak. Small shifts. Easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, which I usually am not. The mountains held the moon’s light for a few final moments before it slipped away.
For the first time all week, I heard cows lowing in the distance. The birds had returned in full force, unapologetic and loud. And my pelicans. Closer than they had ever been.
“They’re huge,” I said out loud. It made me laugh. All week, I had been watching them from a distance, thinking I understood what I was seeing. Turns out, I hadn’t even come close.
There weren’t any clouds, yet the light still touched the mountains before the sun arrived. The whole ridgeline glowed.
I turned east. The mountains were softened by early light, but then the sunrise began—an orange blaze reflected in the mist, turning the valley to fire. It rose from the fog like a living flame. Steady. Clear. Uncovered. Brighter than any sunrise this week.
A week of waiting, and this final Easter sunrise broke every shadow I had carried in this valley.
On my way back, I took a small detour along the inlet near the perimeter trail. Something moved in the water. Not on top like the birds. Beneath it. I stopped. Waited. A small head popped up. A beaver!!!! We both froze, equally surprised. The Canadian in me was delighted! I had admired its dam earlier in the week. It surfaced once or twice more, then disappeared, clearly done with me. Fair.
I crossed over the railroad tracks and, for the first time all week, I didn’t stop at the edge of the mountain. I kept going. Up. Not to summit. Just higher. Enough to see.
The wetlands stretched out below me. The place that had held everything this week. Mud, mist and mess. Birds and stillness. Pelicans, a hidden eagle, and now an elusive beaver. Light in every form. And I could see it all at once.
“Like the warmth of the light of the morning sun, we will feel the love and healing of the Son of God. Darkness will give way to eternal light. Each morning, let the daily rising sun remind us that Jesus Christ is the light that leads us through this life. Through any valley of sorrow, over beautiful mountains of joy and across any ocean of uncertainty…safely back to our loving, merciful Father in Heaven.” President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, General Conference, April 5, 2026
I don’t have a resolution for what I’m waiting on. The questions are still there. The unknowns haven’t cleared. But this week changed something. The sun still rises. Always. Through clouds, through storms, through whatever stands in the way. It comes.
And so does He.
On the drive home, my phone’s algorithm switched to a song that has carried me these past months: God is Still Writing My Story.
“God is still writing my story, every twist, every turn, every page of His glory. When the ink runs dry and the words don’t run He’s working behind the scenes right on time…God is still writing my story, every loss, every fire, every trial, every victory. I may not see the ending but I trust what I can’t see because God is still writing my story….”
And it felt different now. Not like something I was hoping for, but something I believed.
That’s what this week has been. Waiting. Watching. Learning to trust the timing and outcome. Easter morning reminds me why. Light comes. Life returns.
Because…of Christ’s Resurrection, nothing that feels unresolved is ever truly the end.
Because…what once seems unfinished is, in Him, already complete.
Because….“It is finished.” –John 19:30
Happy Resurrection Day!