Lord, thank you for the stark outlines of trees and houses and smoke at the twilight of dawn. Before the sun sneaks over the horizon, the sky-light is monochromatic, a gray canvas; the hackberry’s branches spike the air with skeleton fingers, the roofline of the house across the street is an architect’s sketch. The conifers high in the background are smudges in the lightening sky.

Suddenly sunlight breaks the spell. The smudges become a lightening dark green, the house a fortress of red brick and white siding, the bare branches are round and sturdy. A familiar neighborhood emerges from the obscurity of twilight.

It’s the moment before familiar light that I remember with thanksgiving, Lord.  I love the twilight of the dawn, the sketchpad that reminds me of Creation in progress.  Did it all appear in an instant, “Let there be light?” Or did you draw its outlines and note the beauty of a suggested world before filling it with depth and color? Does the twilight of dawn remind you of the stark image of the coming glory, the moment before heaven and nature sang, and shape and color split the sky? I love the mystery of that moment.