Sunday morning from the Sea of Galilee

In the thin line between darkness ending and light coming I found myself awake.

The air was cool.
The pathway lit by the dim glow of lamp post along the way.
The bricks beneath my shoes ever so damp.
The glow of the Sea's cities stretched out before me.
The quite lap of the waves of a swimmer in the Sea of Galilee below me.
The breeze ever so gentle.
The rooster crowing.
The birds awakening in song.
The thin line between the that which has past and that which is before me was present.

There before me was the passing of one day and the new mercies of yet another day stretched it's arms around me.  The horizon filled moved from darkness into a blue, fading into a purple and exploding in a vibrant pink.  The rays felt as if were reaching out to envelope me, wrapping it's arms around me in a giant hug proclaiming, come my child, come find rest in the day before you, bread for the journey and the crashing of my love upon you.

I sat listening.
I let the breeze wash over me.
I turned my head to see the mountain that we had climbed up and over and then walked through it's valley below to see the reflection of the sun hitting it once again.

The night had faded, a new day had begun, the sky was a hazy blue.

I thought the sun had risen and I almost left.

Then another pilgrimage joined me in the sitting and watching.  Conversation was had and another 20 minutes later, a blaze of fire slowly crept over the horizon.  The red ball filled the lake, used it fingertips to touch the surrounding mountains and reflected off of the water.

Red fire.
Blaze of glory.
A dawning of a new day.
Welcome my child, welcome.
Arise and go, arise and go.