when you miss the sunrise.

sunrise2 This morning Everett and I were lying in bed, him babbling and me half-sleeping. My stomach growled and E giggled as I begrudgingly swung my legs off the bed. I noticed there was an orange tint to the room, and it took me a moment to realize there were orange and pink rays streaming through the cracks in the window blinds.

"Oooooh, Ev! There's a pretty sunrise this morning! Let's go look."

I picked him up and he squealed with delight as we made our way to the window. I opened the blinds and saw the familiar view that I've come to know and love from our bedroom in the morning. Shades of orange, pink, yellow and grey filled the sky.

As I stood there quietly soaking in the sunrise, the morning, the beauty of it all, Everett was practically jumping out of my arms to grab the blinds. He wanted to touch them, hit them, or eat them (I wasn't sure which).

My poor baby. He was missing it! As we stood there facing the magnificent sky, Everett couldn't see the sunrise because he was too focused on the window blinds in front of him.

Aha.

Every day, God is teaching me more and more about what it means to be a parent.

Missing the sunrise is like missing the blessing of marriage because you're too wrapped up in your wedding. It's like missing the first time your baby smiles at you because you're too wrapped up in folding laundry. It's like missing the gift of grace because you're too wrapped up in religion, or like missing out on Heaven because you're too consumed with this life.

Missing the sunrise is like missing the whole point.

And yet...

That sun rises every morning. Certain, true, consistent. Another chance to see it, and another chance to get it right.

As a parent, I have plenty of hopes and dreams for Everett, but above all is my hope that he won't miss the sunrise.

Have you ever been so distracted by a window blind that you missed a sunrise? Are you lost on this metaphor? That's okay, I think I am too.