The night is over

I’m sitting in my living room. It’s early in the morning, and last night seemed longer than usual. I tossed and turned quite a bit, and although my body was craving sleep I found myself waiting for morning to come. In that period between sleep and waking I found myself thinking of what this day must have felt like for a small group of believers, 2000 years ago. I wake up fully and begin to move around.

Now here I am, sipping on some coffee in my favorite chair. I’m reading. All is silent. My family is asleep, and even the city around me seems to have ceased all activity. Silence.

And then… a noise. Footsteps. I catch the unmistakable whisper of sleeper foot on hardwood floor.

My heartbeat has quickened in anticipation of what is to come. I hear a door creak, the murmur of a mother’s voice, and within moments a little head peeks around the corner and blue eyes twinkle sleepily when they see me. I can barely see the face through the wild morning hair, but my daughter’s smile is evident as she mumbles “good morning, dad.” She climbs onto my lap, and I set my coffee down. The trajectory of my morning has changed. The darkness and silence that surrounded me just moments ago are gone, and I am wrapped up in the wonder of human connection.

Now I am reading with a little girl snuggled up in my lap. I want to freeze this moment; the scent of her hair, the softness of her baby cheeks, her tiny voice… I am captivated.

I’m reading through Matthew, and find myself skipping ahead in the story given the significance of today… not on the page, but in my head. Knowing the end of a story always affects how I absorb the beginning and the middle. In this case, seemingly small details about Jesus’ interaction with his disciples take on weight as I put myself in their shoes. I can only imagine the sense of mysterious hope that filled them as they walked alongside him, part of the inner circle of this man who defied their very sense of reality. But what about later on? What about this day? What darkness must have descended on them this morning when they woke up and remembered fully the chaos of the past 48 hours? What feelings of absolute confusion and hopelessness? This is a unique day in history… a fragile day. The Church was about to be born. True Dawn was just hours away, and yet the darkness must have felt all-consuming. The silence deafening.

And then… a noise. The murmur of yet another miracle. The stirrings of a stone rolling away.

We were created for connection. I already alluded to the fact that my morning didn’t truly begin today until the moment when my daughter peeked around the corner and gazed into my eyes. I am not attempting to draw a comparison between the miracle of the resurrection and the entrance of a 3 year old into my living room. Not even close. And yet, the Lord has created us for connection. My morning of silence following a long, dark night was brightened the moment I held my daughter in my arms. Because I was created to connect, born to engage. The anticipation I felt when I heard footsteps in my hall cannot begin to compare to the pounding in Mary’s chest when she heard her Savior say her name that morning in the garden. The night was over. She was experiencing reconnection. Divine connection.

The night is over. True Dawn has changed the trajectory of our lives. There is no need to feel alone, because you are not alone. The night is over. Open your eyes to the wonder of the morning, to the miraculous and undeserved gift of total propitiation. The night is over. Lift up your head and open your heart, allow yourself to be wrapped up in the wonder of Divine connection.

The night is over.