And maybe little Annie was always right.

One of the most important lessons I have learned in life has been taught to me by the sun.

This may sound a little silly to you. And I understand that, as I feel a little silly writing it.

Because I think we’re both worried that I’m headed toward a full-on song and dance where I just might grow a head full of red curls as I sing it out, Annie-the-orphan style.

But really, since 1982 nobody has found a better way to say this, so here it is:

The sun will come out tomorrow.

No matter where I have ever been in my life, I have counted on the sunrise. On the sunshine. On the warmth landing lightly on my skin and the way it reminds me that everything will be alright.

I have photographed it, danced in it, laughed into it, tried to breathe it in and keep it there inside my chest. It has brought me into God’s presence more times than I can count, because the sun is truly a miracle to me.

And I think it’s because I believe it might be one of the gentlest forces known to us here. Day after day, the sun is there, shining for us. And on days when clouds dampen the light, we get the gift of fantastic colors spreading across the sky as we hear in our hearts the sun’s quiet parting sigh. And in that dip below the horizon there is an inherent promise: if we choose to greet it, the light will slowly drift up once again in the morning, casting the fog and dark and dew away.

It’s always there. Whether we can see it beyond the rain or not, it exists. And it’s a sobering reminder of how little we really are. Just humans. So tiny, so fleeting, so bursting with life while we’re here and vanishing off the earth like flames blown off of a match.

And this has been reminding me lately, in some strange way even I don’t really understand, that sometimes we have to remember to create our own kinds of sunshine.

Because this week, I didn’t quite feel like I could feel the sun shining on my heart. And without even registering what I was doing or why, I found myself rummaging for light bulbs in the middle of the night and twisting them into sockets in my room and flipping on every switch and just sitting in the light.

And do you know, it helped me. My heart needed to behold something so bright. And today I took a towel and laid on the ground outside and I soaked the warmth into my skin and my eyes were closed but I saw more clearly than I had in days.

So I write this now as a reminder to myself that from a very young age, I have been a lover of the light. A lover of all things bright. A girl with sun streaming through her veins. A girl basking in the light cast by the Son who gives her life. A girl who looks to tomorrow with the faith that the sun will always be there, shining with all its might. And that these are things I should never forget. Because as long as I’m here, I have to keep looking to the sun, to look deep until I can see nothing else; to remember that God breathed me into a world so fully filled with so much of the very best kind of light.

-Jessi Sanders 2013


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