For two years, in middle school, I woke up early every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to attend a voluntary "conditioning" program, facilitated by a beloved gym teacher and high school basketball coach. My Dad would take me, on his way to work, and when the season was right (so that the sun was rising during our ten minute drive into town) he would tell me how he'd painted the sky just for me. It is one of my fondest memories, with my Father.

Last night, SJ told me he wanted to watch the sunrise. So this morning, I quietly crept into his bedroom, at a quarter to seven, and woke him. Wrapped in blankets, to keep the cool morning air from kissing our still bed-warmed skin, we sat together, faces turned to gaze at the horizon through the big east facing windows in our front room.

I found myself watching him, more than the soft orange glow slowly rising above the hills, surrounding our sleepy little town. He watched the birds flitting about in the trees nearest our front windows, and those across the street in our neighbors' yards. Their songs filled the quiet where the usual sounds of a neighborhood waking up, to get ready for work and school, has faded away with the world we lived in yesterday. And then it happened.

*****

I have watched the sunrise over the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, and I have seen its first morning reflection in mountain lakes, surrounded by evergreen trees. But, for as long as my lungs alternately fill and empty of air, I will remember the magical moment when that bright golden orb first peaked over the horizon, and my seven-year-old stood in silent awe. If only for a second, I swear this beautifully chaotic world stood still. Then, as quickly as it stopped spinning, it began again.

Life is just a series of Earth stopping moments. Wake up and paint the sky.