These days I feel like a sun-scientist (a helionologist?) who is so focused on studying the sun that he forgets that it rises. The hooting owl knows that the sun has risen and that she must sleep. The bird knows that the sun has risen and that he must sing. Even the sunflower turns his head toward the growing beams of morning light that move so quickly over the rolling hills of Illinois.
But, like a sun-scientist, I busy myself with calculations. Tell me all about this thing called Sunrise, I say. When is it coming? What color number is the shade of gold upon the farthest hill?
My wedding is in eight months, and my soul may not fully grasp the depth of what is happening until after the ceremony, I fear. Most of the brain activity regarding the wedding is on such trivial things. Where will the reception be if it rains? Groomsmen clothes? Should I buy their shoes for them? Can any of my friends play the trumpet?
I risk losing the wonder of the changing shadows on the rows and rows of green corn that sit gloriously ordinary in front of me, yet made new by the fresh beams of sunrise light. I risk missing the teeming songs of songbirds that sing the sun from her resting place. For I am involved in something sacred--indeed something that will result in a sacramental exchange of vows and a commitment that will last a lifetime. These little plans and decisions will result in two people declaring their love and faithfulness to each other in front of all the people that have meant something great to them.
May the recurring sunrise wear away any sort of built up calculations in my head.