Its 5:30 in the morning.
It’s still dark out, but they’re chattering like they’re in a crowded restaurant at noon.
I wake up to them.
It’s spring. It’s nearly dawn. And the birds are announcing the day.
“It’s here! It’s here!”
I don’t know how they know the sun is rising. It’s still dark. But as the black turns to steel gray which turns to soft pink, they continue their squawking with animated delight.
Half asleep, I put their conversation to words – each sentence punctuated with explanation points:
“The sun is coming!”
“I know! I wasn’t sure if it would, but it’s coming!”
“Aha! It’s turning gray! I knew it! I knew it!”
“The sun! The sun!”
“See? Its pink! It’s been dark for so long! Finally, the sun!”
“Wait! Didn’t we do this yesterday?!”
Some mornings I grumble and pull the covers over my head. Other mornings I want to throw open the window and squirt them with my Double Barrel Super Soaker water gun.
“Move to Kansas!” I want to yell.
Not sure why.
But this morning, I just lay there and listened. I put words to their squawks and smiled.
Then my thoughts drifted to Easter, and the steely darkness of that early Sunday before the dawn. How quiet and sad and lonely those moments must have been before the birds began to sing.
Ah, but when they did… when the sky went from inky black to steel gray to pink… oh my, I bet you the birds went wild that morning.
“The Son is coming! The Son is coming!”
“It’s been dark for so long! And now the stone has been rolled away, I knew it! I knew it!
I wonder if all of creation celebrated that day, if the birds sang, the wind danced and the trees swayed in delight…
I like to think so.
For death could not hold him. Not our Savior. Not our Jesus.
Oh, what a day it must have been.