Yesterday afternoon, as I drove toward Denver with 4 of my children, the clouds were busy closing the shades on the sun in their typical-for-Colorado attempt to end the day early.
Hannah noticed the dimming light coming through a crack in the clouds and asked if that was the sun. Apparently, the light looked unique for that moment and she wasn’t sure if she was seeing a reflection or some other phenomenon. It was the sun, though, peaking through with determination, while the walls closed in on it.
When I nodded in response to her question, she said something like, “Wow! That’s a pretty weak sun.” I pushed away several smart remarks floating through my mind like clouds, but kept my mouth shut and just considered the idea of a weak sun.
The sun is always shining. We talk about sunrise as the sun coming up, and the sunset in the opposite way, but we all know that the sun doesn’t move. It just sits there at the center of our solar system, burning, shining, and doing what a good sun does.
This is one of those perspective things. Are we only seeing things anchored by our own lives, or are we capable of observing a bigger picture?
Hannah was wrong, the sun wasn’t weak. The sun was doing its normal thing, as strong as ever. At that moment, the clouds drifting around a few thousand feet from our faces, and puny in comparison to the sun, were in just the right position to block our view of the sun, only because the sun is so much farther away.
I was reminded of the times I’ve been in a plane on a stormy day, and the wonder I’ve experienced as we climbed through the clouds and found blue skies and a vibrant, powerful sun shining at full strength unaffected by the turmoil below. It’s amazing how getting just a few miles closer to the sun can change your perspective.
Even when the darkness of night falls wherever you are, the sun is still doing its thing for everyone making hay on the far side of this globe.
Remember Eeyore? That poor little gray donkey with the floppy ears from the Winnie the Pooh stories always has a rain cloud floating above his head. Somedays I’m like that. Somedays, I can’t see the sun even though the only place in the entire 100-acre-wood that it’s not visible is in the two square feet where I’m standing.
The sun is always shining. Maybe I can’t see it, or maybe I refuse to see it, but it’s always shining.