Morning has broken.

It was 15 minutes after 7 a.m. The sun was rising in the east, an orange streak splitting the sky as it rose and nearly blinded me. I pulled the visor down and turned the radio up, searching through my purse for my sunglasses.

I was cutting across the backroads because high winds had knocked down power lines and poles, closing Highway 25 and making backroads necessary. Andrew Peterson was singing about the “Good Confession,” and Muffin the Wonder Poodle was asleep.

Everything was perfect, but still, I was sad. I was sad because Christmas was over. Sad because the reason for this early trip home was to sing in the choir at my friend John Chandler’s memorial service. Sad because I already miss his smile. Sad because even though it wasn’t the first Christmas without Grandma Polly, I missed her immensely this year. Sad because I was feeling sad.

But as I was driving across that Missouri farmland in the early morning light in the depth of my sorrow, I realized how beautiful it all was. How big creation is. How I have a God who can handle the things that scare me, wound me, the sorrow that I keep lugging around.

There’s a peace in that. A hope in that. Truth in that.

And I cling to that.