Sixty-some sunrises I’ve strung together in as many days, daily photos snapped at Yorktown Beach, stolen moments on the shore reflecting on resilience.  The sunrise, it seems, has much wisdom to impart on the subject.

Yes, a sunrise represents a fresh start, a new beginning.  That dawn dawns and dusk dusks gives us Anne of Green Gables’ optimism: “Tomorrow’s always fresh with no mistakes in it yet.” If what comes between dawn and dusk is less than my best, I’ve got the promise to begin anew the next day, quite literally, after being refreshed by time, sleep, and reflection under the moon.

But that familiar, symbolic new beginning’s not what dawns on me when I’m chasing the sunrise, morning after morning. In fact, before I began scheduling my day around it, I considered the rising of the sun to be a steady constant.  Now I understand it comes up right on schedule, but it’s rarely the same time.

As such, incorporating the sunrise into my morning routine is both an exercise in constancy and flexibility.  In January, I returned to fulltime teaching after taking a sabbatical to write my first book. My new daily routine looked like waking at four-thirty, leaving an hour later to hit the gym, then coming home to fix breakfast for my kid, dress, and take Cali with me to watch the sunrise on the way to school. 

Then, one day at a time, a couple minutes each day, the sun rose earlier.  Eventually, I went straight from the gym to Yorktown Beach and journaled through the sunrise before going home to prepare breakfast and get dressed.  And just when I’d settled naturally into this rhythm, we sprung the clocks ahead an hour, so once again Cali’s back beside me for the color and light show.

It becomes a dance of adaptation, a reminder that just like the sun’s trajectory, life demands we continually adjust our routines and expectations. Each sunrise challenges me to flex, to flow with the rhythm of the seasons; when the clock insists on shifting ahead, it’s just evidence that life, like the solar calendar, will have its ups and downs. We cultivate resilience by accepting the reality that nothing stays the same, not even the time each day starts and ends.

And though I know it’s the same sun, no two sunrises are equal.  As I drive to the beach, the anticipation builds—will today’s colors be soft pastels or fiery reds? Will the morning mist carry a sense of mystery, or will the clear sky offer an unobstructed view of the awakening world? Where I was once hesitant to change, I find myself welcoming its inevitability with wonder and awe.

In essence, it is not the constancy of the sun I’ve come to revere but its ability to surprise, delight, and be unpredictably unique each day.  Perhaps I’ve still some surprises left for myself after four decades.

Sometimes, I’m convinced God paints a moving picture show on the horizon that captures my mood.  Like yesterday, I drove to and from the gym in a torrential downpour, but by the time Cali and I parked in our usual spot at the beach, the rain had abated.  A thick layer of dark clouds tinged with hues of deep blue and gray hugged the James River, hiding the cresting sun from view.

There are days it feels like the sun doesn’t come up.  St. Patrick’s Day, for me, is one of those days. While others are donning green and risking repercussions for pinching those of us without, I’m honoring three great lives lost.  Among them are my mother’s mother, who died on March 17 before I was born.  Another was my first marriage, ended the same day twelve years ago. 

The third was Joshua Welker, a southern gentleman who stole my heart in adolescence and later courted me as a grown woman.  It has been two years since this incredible light went out of our world, two years of days where the sun rose and set.  Healthy, in his early forties like me, Joshua went to sleep and never woke up for another sunrise. 

No one expected the heart attack, certainly not his mother Marci who discovered his body in the morning.  So, while I was chasing the sunrise yesterday, I had Marci on my mind. She was forced to keep waking up to sunrises without her oldest son.  Regardless of the weather, I imagine life felt a bit like this dark, stormy morning, only eternally so.

I journaled as I waited for the sun to rise above those low-riding clouds but equally grateful if the day never dawned. I wrote about how, in the two years since Joshua passed away, I’ve watched Marci pick up the pieces and find new ways to honor his memory, gather her remaining family, and practice self-care routines. She’s the perfect example that resilience can be cultivated, developed like a muscle.  

Despite scattered showers in the distance and persistent clouds, in the course of mere minutes lost in my journaling, the entire sky had been illuminated. Subtle streaks of light permeated through iridescent clouds, and though I could not see the sun, its brightness could only be muted, not blocked. 

It’s a message of hope: even when you can’t see it, the sun still rose. Through clouds or storms, there’s still a light.  This sunrise was also a lesson in patience.  Had I left five minutes sooner for the school parking lot, I’d have never seen the silver lining of the dawn. Sometimes, we have too much to learn from adversity to bounce back quickly; there’s grace in time for adapting.  Some progress is better marked in years than sunrises.

Marci lives too many states away to share a sunrise with me, but that doesn’t stop me sending her photographs from Yorktown Beach. On the weekends, my husband goes with me; admittedly, the sunrise snap was his idea to help balance circadian rhythms, but during the week, Tony starts work before sun-up.  Then, there are those weeks where Cali joins me before school.  Each day is different.

I’m never alone even when I am.  I cannot stand on the fishing pier and hear the waves, swiftly sloshing or roaring in my ears, without acknowledging the Creator of the entire display. The beauty commands my gratitude.  My soul remembers that God’s mercy and grace are renewed with the crest of the sun.

The summer after Joshua passed and before I met my husband, I walked Fort Monroe Beach at sunset every night, writing songs on my ukulele, praying for the family that would come.  Those sunsets taught me about hope and strength in adversity, believing for brighter days ahead. Yorktown Beach sunrises teach me that resilience isn’t just about enduring challenges but embracing the moments of joy and beauty that arise amidst the struggles. Each sunrise at Yorktown brings a fresh canvas where vibrant colors echo that life constantly rejuvenates itself.

So, as I stand on Yorktown Beach, waiting for the sun to break free from its nightly slumber, I remind myself that every moment holds the potential for renewal. The lessons of loss and love intertwine, reminding me that every day is a gift, a chance to honor the past while welcoming the present.

The sun will rise, and even if the clouds threaten to obscure it for a time, there is always light waiting to break through the darkness.