Morning has always been a cautious mercy to me. The light comes slowly, like it’s checking first to see if it’s safe to shine. I understand that hesitation. My mornings as a child were rarely peaceful; if I woke up, it meant I’d made it through the night’s confusion. I’ve learned since then that dawn doesn’t fix the dark, but it does expose what survived it. That’s what recovery looks like. It’s not denial. It’s the steady work of naming what’s still standing and giving thanks that something is.
Each sunrise is a divine question: What will you do with the mercy of another day? The prophets would have said the same thing in their own way. They were light-chasers, not optimists. They told the truth about the night and then pointed to the hope that shines in the east.
For the recovering orphan, light means responsibility. It means getting up again when yesterday fell apart. It means trusting that God’s grace will meet us in the small, ordinary faith of beginning again. First light is for those who know survival is sacred and that every new day carries an assignment: to live, to love, to lift somebody else who’s still in the dark.
It’s time to wake up, dear friends. Read Recovering Orphan, the book.
