we’re going on a sunrise hunt

It has been overcast for the better part of the previous weeks, so on Christmas morning, as I open the curtains, I am expecting to see the same. But light pours in from a grand sunrise, the color of mellow orange juice poured over the sky as if it is a vapor being released from a pitcher, expanding out and out.

“Kids! Kids! Come see!”

They scutter up in their Christmas jammies to the large picture window which looks out to our street—the one that’s just perfect for their short stature, the one with all their fingermarks and dried drool from looking out and admiring neighbor kids playing or squirrels hiding acorns or cats prowling.

“Wowww!” they all say in unison.

One kid marvels: “It’s soooo oraaange! It’s sooo orange! This beautiful daaaayyy…”

They open the front door to get a closer look. As they look, I feel time fleeting, and that the opportunity to act is now, even though they just got up and we haven’t had breakfast.

“Kids—let’s go on a sunrise hunt!”

It doesn’t take any convincing. They are ecstatic about this plan. Without putting on shoes, they hurry over to the minivan in their onesies, and try to open the side door they always go in. It’s frozen shut, so they all climb in to the frosty car through the driver’s seat.

“We’re going on a sunrise hunt!” I exclaim.

We pull out of the driveway in search of a wide open vantage point so that we can rest in the glory. “Maybe on Christmas,” my son says, “the sunrise color is different. Because the sunrise knows it’s Christmas.”

And then he says this: “It’s mystery. It’s mystery!”