For the last 6 weeks or so, I’ve been able to really take advantage of my roof.

It’s unfinished, unimpressive, and contains piles of rebar and dirt.

But the view is pretty spectacular.

Sometimes.

In Ohio, at least in my part of the state, there are no mountains; just rolling flat fields as far as the eye can see.

It’s really quite beautiful, but in a very different way.

So this was a new thing for me when moving to Guatemala and into a mountain town nestled in a valley with mountains on all sides, and 3 volcanoes overing beyond these!

I grew very accustomed to this view.

Something that never seemed important became so.

From every place across town, you could find where you were, and how to get back if you just look for the volcanoes.

The ridges of the other mountains are so familiar that they can guide you when you are lost.

The shape of those ridges and peaks against the sky feels like home. There is almost an identity in the landscape.

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In my new town, I have no volcanoes, but I am learning the shape of our surrounding mountains.

From my roof I can see the mountain over town that I’ve come to love climbing.

From the top of the “hill”, I can see this town crested between the mountains.

So, the answer is yes, I CAN see my house from here!

So if I can see mountains form my rooftop, why would I say the view is spectacular… only sometimes?

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I have been enjoying my morning time with God on the roof.

And I am finding that it is not always very desirable to be there.

On the roof. Or in vulnerability drawing near to God’s heart.

At first, there is not much to see.

It’s dark.

Personally, this bit- it’s where I don’t really want to be here. It’s a discipline to get up. It’s a discipline to set this time aside.

At times like these it’s a discipline to pray, and spend time in the word. It’s hard to forgive where I need to forgive, and hard to feel joy where pain is too near.

This was driven home by losing Deisy just over 2 weeks ago. She had been abused. She had been removed from her family. She had gotten sick. She had remained sick. And she died.

Nationally, Guatemala experienced tragedy less than a week ago when a bus lost control, went over a cliff, and took over 50 lives with it.

Death is so near. Darkness so oppressive.

In the US, there is division, fear for the future, and much confusion.

I think everyone feels that the opposing side of whatever issue simply doesn’t see.

Hopeless.

Darkness.

It’s hard to consider this as part of the sunrise when there is no sun to see. But this contrast sets the stage for the brilliance to come.

And then you see it- the first hints of light.

It’s not much. Almost nothing really.

Just a slight silhouette of the mountains with some texture to the darkness where clouds allow the first traces of light to pass through.

But it’s important. It’s like a promise.

We need that promise. It’s still so dark.

We have walked this before, losing children. I know Deisy was sick, and hurting. But it is not easier. It is not ok that she is gone.

I know this. I know the heaviness will pass. But it is not easier to get dressed. It is not easier to eat, or move or do anything.

BUT. I know there is hope there.

I know it in my head. But in my heart, hope feels so far.
And for now maybe it’s enough to know it in my head.

Maybe that’s what faith is.

I don’t feel the hope now. But I know it will come.

In the morning darkness, I can see traces of light, but it is far. I cannot read a word without a lantern because the sunrise is still so far from being enough light touch where I am waiting.

My head knows what my heart can’t feel right now. This is the promise that even as dark as death, confusion, and chaos can feel, light WILL ALWAYS follow.

We see even from the story of creation.

Again and again, There was darkness. Then there was light. And it was good.

There was chaos. Then there was order. And it was good.

There was death. Then there was Hope. And it is good.

Now there are colors changing int he sky. Deep reds define the still dark mountains.

Clouds add contrast and dimension to the live painting covering the sky.

It is beautiful.

It is still dark.

Lives lost on the bus will continue to hold their impact for a long time to come. The light is a long way off for those in grief.

Uncertianty and confusion cloud the sky, but light comes.

Deisy had been abused and removed from her family.
Then she had come to a home who loved her and her brothers.

She had been very sick,
then that new home of hers loved her well and sent loving nannies to stay with her to comfort her in the hospital.

Her sickness showed a failing heart, and no strength for a new one.
Then this led to second home, even more people to fall in love with her. More hearts to surround her with prayers, and love.

And she died.
And Then she had the best day of her life.

And the rest of us? Two group homes and a bio family filled a courtyard and expressed love for her short life. God used her and impacted all of us.

There was darkness in her story, then there was light: redemptive hope in its progression.

Not easy, but beautiful.

On the roof, I still need a lantern to read. It’s still a discipline.

It’s still dark. But it’s beautiful all the same.

This darkness comes with a promise.

Now the deep reds fade out some as the sun nears the horizon.

There is enough light to see some of the shape of the mountains- where trees grow, and which mountains lay nearer. The misty blues of those farther back almost fade into the now soft pink of the sky.

Now there is almost enough light to read without a lantern.

Almost.

Healing begins to come. At least, in some areas.

It’s easier to function again.

The thing is, lessons we learn never happen in a vacuum. Losses we experience happen within the context and framework of other losses and victories personally, socially, and globally.

God has been teaching me great things, and bringing such depth to our conversations and prayer.

This is happening while my heart hurts for the challenges my U.S. is now facing, the losses my Guatemala is facing and personal growth in forgiveness and grief.

With all these in mind, hope seems nearer as the deep reds fade and the soft pinks promise the sun is not far behind those mountains.

Except, then the shades of red grow deeper again.

The clarity and detail on the mountains remains. There is even just enough light to read without a lantern now. Even in photos the clouds betray the progression of time.

So why have the soft pinks turned deeper again?

Why does the sky itself look darker than moments before, even when the sun is nearer now than it was then?

Is this a step backward?

Why did I break down right then after I had been doing so well?

It’s like that sometimes.

Even thought I know the sun is nearer now than ever, I feel heavier.

I feel darker and deeper now, even than a few moments earlier.

I know the light is about to come. I know healing is on its way.

I just can’t feel that right now.

Sometimes faith is more of a discipline.

There will be highs and lows. But I can read without a lantern now.

The emotions might weigh so heavily still, but I can read these words of hope and know they are mine even as I only begin to feel them.

It’s a promise.

Faithful as the rising sun.

It’s a discipline, but a fruitful one.

And there it is.

The sun has finally crested the farthest mountain peak. And it is brilliant!

The thing is, there was never any way the sun would not rise above that mountain.

It had to happen.

Maybe clouds or rain might have blocked its view, but that sun will always rise. It will always happen.

God’s presence, nearness, and control over the things that scare me are certainties.

I don’t know what colors they will strike across the sky, but I do know they are certain.

That’s faith- certainty in God’s love, and certainty in His hope.

And that sun keeps rising. It’s not done.

It’s vivid. It’s vast and vibrant.

And it’s completely unlike yesterday.

This is new. This is for today. This is for now.

This beauty came from last night’s pain.

The specific chill of last night, — it’s rains, it’s winds, left just the right pattern in the sky to stream beams of light across the atmosphere.

At just these angles at just these moments to create this living art.

The masterpiece of this sunrise was crafted specifically out of last nights pains, tears, and hurts.

We are living art as well.

Our scars, hurts, and tears craft the landscape that will reflect the brilliant light of dawn.

Deisy is free now. And her life held purpose. Her life held hope.

So will these other struggles.

So will your pain.

This will be used.

It will be redeemed.

There will be hope.

There will be life.

It’s a promise.

As surly as the sun will rise.