Several weeks ago, I drove over to take my mom to her first physical therapy session, following the discovery of two slipped discs in her back. My parents live about two hours away, and her appointment was at 9:30 in the morning, so that meant getting a move on.
Under an early morning sky, I joined the Houston commuters and headed East. I’d not gone but a few miles when my eye caught something round and glowing up ahead. (Do you see it?)
There it was—the sun rising, announcing the dawn. There’s just something about the breaking of day that is hard to describe. It’s magical and humbling and thrilling all at once.
As I crossed Lake Houston, I eased over on the shoulder to make the most of my phone's camera. That’s how I roll. If I’m driving and see something worthy of a photo, by golly, I’m going to do my best to find a way to make it happen. From the looks of things, this was going to be a crystal clear day.
But a mile or so up the road, something changed.
Without warning, a layer of fog suddenly appeared, blanketing the sun, hiding its face behind a veil.
All around me, the fog seemed to whisper the mysteries of morning.
I was glad to be traveling alone, because, once again, I felt compelled to pull over and document this moment. I’m certain there came a surge of goosebumps, so captivated I was by the view.
I don't remember how long I sat there, but as I rejoined my fellow travelers, I thought for a long time about what I’d just witnessed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else had noticed the extraordinary scenes unfolding on this ordinary day, on this ordinary road.
“My Father God, help me to expect Thee on the ordinary road. I do not ask for sensational happenings. Commune with me through ordinary work and duty. Be my Companion when I take the common journey. Let the humble life be transfigured by Thy presence.” (from Streams in the Desert 1, by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman)