Randa is standing at the sink, washing dishes. She offers to scramble eggs but I opt for Wheaties this morning. I get the milk and yogurt, set my bowl on the table and take a spoon from the draining rack, sit down and start my breakfast.
I’ve never been to the Olympics and haven’t won first place in any sporting event since shuffleboard at West Kentucky Youth Camp in 1966. So, it would seem that this box of cereal might be the extent of what I share in common with the red-haired snowboarder on the front of the box.
I eat slowly, look out the kitchen window, out beyond the huge trash dumpster for all the remodeling debris, past the trees and the ridge off to the southwest. The lightest tints of rose and pink catch in the western sky. It is a delicate trace, so faint it’s easy to wonder if it’s really there or just a momentary apparition of some kind, something you’ve imagined in the pale, colorless morning.
I tilt my head, focus more intently and know that it’s the least reflection of a sunrise yet to come. That soft touch speaks of clear morning and bright skies, like a gentle hand lightly touching your arm or a slight smile under barely arched eyebrows.
Some days, like this one, it seems I feel God’s caressing touch, beckoning me toward the day he has made.