The Sun Is Not a Baptist

I did something this morning that I haven't done in a long time.

I got up early enough to sit on my den couch and watch--and feel-- the sun slowly, gently and unhurriedly, bathe the room in its light. 

I plumped, pushed, and poofed the sofa pillows at the end of the couch by the big ol' skirted-to-the-floor oak dining room table that I use for an end table (always wanted to do that), grabbed one of the fuzzy red throws for my legs, and then nestled into the couch to sip hot set-up-by-St. Michael-the-night-before coffee, and watch the slow, lazy baptism of the room around me.   

I don't think the sun is a Baptist.  This ordinance was more of a steady sprinking, maybe gentle pouring, continuing until everything was drenched in its light.  No sudden emersion or bold flash flood.  

And I think to myself that, more often than not, that is how coming out of the darkness is. 

Grins,

Pamm