Witnessing Sunrise Quotes

It had nothing to do with gear or footwear or the backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era or even with getting from point A to point B. It had to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles with no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the other side of the party, hearing laughter and the emptying of bottles while I peacefully make my way to the river, a lonely road, following the smell of the ocean. I’m the one waking up at 4am to witness the sunrise, where the sky touches the sea, and I hold my elbows, grasping tight to whatever I’ve made of myself.

Bismilahir-rahmanir-rahim! I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script, which flows from the quill; I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening, the night and all she enlivens; I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns. I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself; I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things - to witness that every man always suffers loss.

It only had to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

He poked his finger into my chest again. “Well, I have something to tell you: don’t let the sun set on you in this county, because…” I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, tripping him with my foot. He went down back first and I caught him by his throat, three feet above the ground, lifted him up a bit and bent down to his face. My eyes glowed with murderous red. My voice turned rough with an animal growl. “Listen well, because I won’t be repeating myself, you racist prick. If you make any trouble for me or my people, I’ll hunt you down like the pig you are and carve a second mouth across your gut. They’ll find you hanging by your own intestines. The next time you hear something laugh and howl in the night, hug your family, because you won’t see the sunrise.” I opened my fingers. He crashed on the ground, his face white as a sheet. He scrambled backward, rolled to his feet, and took off. The three shapeshifters stared at me, openmouthed. “That’s how you intimidate people. No witnesses and not a mark on him. Get your asses to the car.

Look," Linden says. " Look how beautiful it is." "The sunrise?" I ask. "The start of a new day," Linden says. "Being healthy enough to witness it.

But I know Jesus arose. I feel his presence now, here, with me. I see the evidence of his Word everyday. From creation forth, the whole world is witness to God's plan revealed through his Son. From the beginning, he prepared us. In the passing of the seasons; in the way flowers spring forth, die, and drop seeds for life to begin again; in the sunset and sunrise. Jesus' sacrifice is reenacted every day of our lives if we but have the eyes to see.

I’ve seen so many places over the past few months. I’ve witnessed a million sunrises, and I’ve seen the sun set. There were thousands of roads I’ve driven, and no matter which one I took, no matter if I went left or right, north or south, it seemed that they all led me right back to you.

In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.

he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.

It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

Bismilahir-rehmanir-rahim I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script, which flows from the quill; I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening, the night and all she enlivens; I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns. I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself; I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things - to witness that every man always suffers loss.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week - a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards. I'm sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word. Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It's true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying order and climbing up out of the grave - now there's a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of the earth. My sister, Swede, who often sees to the nub, offered this: People fear mirales because they fear being changed - though ignoring them will change you also. Swede said another thing, too, and it rang in me like a bell: No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here's what I saw. Here's how it went. Make of it what you will.

It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way. (207)

A sunrise, a winter squall, birds flying in a perfect V. These were things that were. The truth, visceral and sublime, of the universe, was that it existed whether we witnessed it or not. Majesty and beauty, these were qualities we projected upon it. A storm was just weather. A sunrise was simply a celestial pattern. It's not that he didn't enjoy them. It's that he didn't require anything more from the universe than that it exist, that it behave consistently-- that gravity worked the way it always worked, that lift and drag were constants.

Comparisons I compared her to the moon because even in darkness she remained beautiful. I compared her to a sunrise because I'd awake before her to witness the opening of her eyes.

With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets.

In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it.

Only one god. Strange, that you English, who gather about you so many things, are content with one only. And so distant, up there in the sky. I do not have to look so far. I can see my skygod clear enough, right there,’ he said, stretching out an arm towards the sun. ‘By day Keesakand. Tonight Nanpawshat, moon god, will take his place. And there will be Potanit, god of the fire....’ He prattled on, cataloguing his pantheon of heathenish idols. Trees, fish, animals and the like vanities, all of them invested with souls, all wielding powers. I kept a count as he enumerated, the final tally of his gods reaching thirty-seven. I said nothing. At first, because I hardly knew what to say to one so lost. “But then, I remembered the singing under the cliffs. An inner voice, barely audible: the merest hiss. Satan’s voice, I am sure of it now, whispering to me that I already knew Keesakand, that I had already worshipped him many times as I bathed in the radiance of the sunrise, or paused to witness the glory of his sunset. And did not Nanpawshat have power over me, governing the swelling, salty tides of my own body, which, not so very long since, had begun to ebb and flow with the moon. It was good, the voice whispered. It was right and well to know these powers, to live in a world aswirl with spirits, everywhere ablaze with divinity.

I paused for a minute to witness the sunrise over Waikiki Beach. As the orange sun spread its rays over the island, the warm breeze wrapped me in its embrace, assuring me everything happened for a reason. With outstretched arms, I breathed in the kaleidoscope of colors that reflected the sky, the sun, the sea. For the first time, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to live my life in color.

Me voliv tu,” he whispered, and brushed her smiling lips with his. “When a Rom tells his woman, ‘I love you,’ the meaning of the word is never chaste. It expresses desire. Lust.” That pleased Win. “Me voliv tu,” she whispered back. “Kev …” “Yes, love?” “How does one marry the Romany way?” “Join hands in front of witnesses, and make a vow. But we’ll do it the way of the gadje, too. And every other way I can think of.

On May 28, 1830, President Andrew Jackson unlawfully signed the Indian Removal Act to force move southeastern peoples from our homelands to the West. We were rounded up with what we could carry. We were forced to leave behind houses, printing presses, stores, cattle, schools, pianos, ceremonial grounds, tribal towns, churches. We witnessed immigrants walking into our homes with their guns, Bibles, household goods and families, taking what had been ours, as we were surrounded by soldiers and driven away like livestock at gunpoint. There were many trails of tears of tribal nations all over North America of indigenous peoples who were forcibly removed from their homelands by government forces. The indigenous peoples who are making their way up from the southern hemisphere are a continuation of the Trail of Tears. May we all find the way home.

I want us to be faithful to each other,” she said gravely. “From this day forward.” There was a brief silence, a hesitation born not of doubt, but awareness. As if their vows were being heard and witnessed by some unseen presence. Merripen’s chest rose and fell in a long, deep breath. “I’ll be faithful to you,” he said. “Forever.” “So will I.” “Promise also that you’ll never leave me again.” Win lifted her hand from the center of his chest and pressed a kiss there. “I promise.

In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals come to life. They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments. They sing their songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye and the listening ear is great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.

The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many in his hand—witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create—that noble ship’s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small—we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hair-breadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire—solder you call it. He can see in the dark—no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature’s laws—why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be someone of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset.

It was the thing that had compelled them to fight for the trail against all the odds, and it was the thing that drove me and every other long distance hiker onward on the most miserable days. It had nothing to do with gear or footwear or the backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era or even with getting from point A to point B. It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.

I'd read the section in my guidebook about the trail's history the winter before, but it wasn't until now—a couple of miles out of Burney Falls, as I walked in my flimsy sandals in the early evening heat—that the realization of what that story meant picked up force and hit me squarely in the chest: preposterous as it was, when Catherine Montgomery and Clinton Clarke and Warren Rogers and the hundreds of others who'd created the PCT had imagined the people who would walk that high trail that wound down the heights of our western mountains, they'd been imagining me. It didn't matter that everything from my cheap knockoff sandals to my high-tech-by-1995-standards boots and backpack would have been foreign to them, because what mattered was utterly timeless. It was the thing that compelled them to fight for the trail against all the odds, and it was the thing that drove me and every other long-distance hiker onward on the most miserable days. It had nothing to do with gear or footwear or the backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era or even with getting from point A to point B. It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way. That's what Montgomery knew, I supposed. And what Clarke knew and Rogers and what thousands of people who preceded and followed them knew. It was what I knew before I even really did, before I could have known how truly hard and glorious the PCT would be, how profoundly the trail would both shatter and shelter me.

He was smiling! That was it; her actual sunrise. It lit the candles of answers to every query of her life. . Having wings is one thing and flying another. Having eyes is one thing and dreaming another. Having a heart is one thing and falling in love, quite another. . Destiny is the root of all limitations and a dream is the seed for all liberations. . By the way, is it darkness that gives light an identity or is it the other way round? . If life is divided into two parts, then one part is definitely about living it and the other, about missing the moments lived. . How can I comfort anyone with words of hope when I am myself empty of it? . It might all sound bizarre to you because I am sharing my thoughts for her only today but believe me something happened from the first time I saw her. Something did happen. The air (or what was it?) told me she was mine though I was a little apprehensive to accept the fact then but now, I think I am in love. No, I know I am in love for the first time in my life. (Ritwika was just a crush). It’s crazy, I know. It’s only been few weeks that I first saw her. I haven’t even talked to her till now. But does that really matter? . What the fuck is it with first love? So many ifs and buts. Damn! . Seriously I do have something to tell God: It’s tough to be God, I know, but mind you it’s tougher to be human in this crazy fucking world of yours. . No one asked me or forced me not to hug happiness but I consciously chose to sleep with pain. . I am not happy so I can’t stand anyone who is. . But I am helpless…you are helpless…we are helpless…the world is helpless and even help is helpless. . It’s not about reaching the edge, it’s about the jump. A jump for onetime-the fall of a lifetime. . It was eight years ago but time doesn't heal all wounds. . Isn't it better to lie and encourage a significant construction than to speak the truth and witness destruction? . From today onwards Radhika is not only a part of my life but also a part of my heart, my mind, my soul, my will, my zeal, my happiness, my tears, my depression, my excitement, my interests, my decisions, my character and my identity. . The times that go away at the blink of an eye are actually the times which eventually get placed inside the safe of our most treasured memories. . Life is no movie where we need to necessarily get all things right by the end. . She is too sexy to forget.

He had no desire to form attachments to people. That would have required more trust and intimacy than he could summon. But he did care for all the Hathaway brood, even Leo. And then there was Win, for whom Kev would have died a thousand times over. He would never degrade Win with his touch, or dare to assume a place in her life other than as a protector. She was too fine, too rare. As she grew into womanhood, every man in the county was enthralled by her beauty. Outsiders tended to view Win as an ice maiden, neat and unruffled and cerebral. But outsiders knew nothing of the sly wit and warmth that lurked beneath her perfect surface. Outsiders hadn't seen Win teaching Poppy the steps to a quadrille until they had both collapsed to the floor in giggles. Or frog-hunting with Beatrix, her apron filled with leaping amphibians. Or the droll way she read a Dickens novel with an array of voices and sounds, until the entire family howled at her cleverness. Kev loved her. Not in the way that novelists and poets described. Nothing so tame. He loved her beyond earth, heaven, or hell. Every moment out of her company was agony; every moment with her was the only peace he had ever known. Every touch of her hands left an imprint that ate down his soul. He would have killed himself before admitting it to anyone. The truth was buried deep within his heart.

What are you doing?” Leo demanded, wondering if she had lost her wits entirely. “He doesn’t need a lamp, Win.” Ignoring him, Win removed the glass fount and tossed it to the bed. She did the same with the brass wick burner, exposing the oil reservoir. Without hesitation, she poured the lamp oil over the front of the wardrobe. The pungent odor of highly flammable paraffin spread through the room. “Have you lost your mind?” Leo demanded, astonished not only by her actions, but also by her calm demeanor. “I have a matchbox, Julian,” she said. “Tell me what to give Mr. Rohan, or I’ll set the wardrobe on fire.” “You wouldn’t dare,” Harrow cried. “Win,” Leo said, “you’ll burn the entire damned house down, just after it’s been rebuilt. Give me the bloody matchbox.” She shook her head resolutely. “Are we starting a new springtime ritual?” Leo demanded. “The annual burning-of-the-manse? Come to your senses, Win.” Win turned from him and glared at the wardrobe door. “I was told, Julian, that you killed your first wife. Possibly by poison. And now knowing what you have done to my brother-in-law, I believe it. And if you don’t help us, I’m going to roast you like a piece of Welsh rarebit.” She opened the matchbox. Realizing she couldn’t possibly be serious, Leo decided to back her bluff. “I’m begging you, Win,” he said theatrically, “don’t do this. There’s no need to—Christ!” This last as Win struck a match and set the wardrobe on fire. It wasn’t a bluff, Leo thought dazedly. She actually intended to broil the bastard. At the first bright, curling blossom of flame, there was a terrified cry from inside the wardrobe. “All right! Let me out! Let me out! It’s tannic acid. Tannic acid. It’s in my medical case; let me out!” “Very well, Leo,” Win said, a bit breathless. “You may extinguish the fire.” In spite of the panic that raced through his veins, Leo couldn’t suppress a choked laugh. She spoke as if she’d asked him to snuff a candle, not put out a large flaming piece of furniture. Tearing off his coat, he rushed forward and beat wildly at the wardrobe door. “You’re a madwoman,” he told Win as he passed her. “He wouldn’t have told us otherwise,” Win said.

Tommy had been dealing with more than a few adjustments since he’d come west from his hometown of Incontinence, Indiana—not the least of which had been finding a girlfriend, who, while smart, sexy, and quick-witted, drank his blood and tended to fall unconscious at the exact moment of sunrise.

When you are a witness to a moment in nature you are celebrating. For instance, when you are watching a sunrise or sunset, you are not processing. You simply are. You are captivated by the spectacle. You are not passing any judgment. You just are. Similarly, occasionally, you must rise to be a witness to your own Life. Not to observe, engage, judge or review. But to just be like a fly on your Life's wall. Be a witness. When you are a witness, you learn more about yourself. And when you employ that learning you transform.

When was the last time he’d noticed the flight of a bird? Or the way the clouds moved across the sky? Or the beauty of a sunrise? He tried to remember how that very morning’s sunrise had looked and found the memory elusive, as though he hadn’t witnessed it at all.

I followed him into the trees, through the ever-lightening world. His hand was solid and unmovable around mine as we passed through the low-lying mists, and he helped me up a bare hill slick with dew. We sat atop its crest, and I hid my smile as Tamlin put an arm around my shoulders, tucking me in close. I rested my head against his chest, while he toyed with the flowers in my garland. In silence, we stared out over the rolling green expanse. The sky shifted into periwinkle, and the clouds filled with pink light. Then, like a shimmering disk too rich and clear to be described, the sun slipped over the horizon and lined everything with gold. It was like seeing the world being born, and we were the sole witnesses. Tamlin's arm tightened around me, and he kissed the top of my head. I pulled back, looking up at him. The gold in his eyes, bright with the rising sun, flickered. 'What?' 'My father once told me that I should let my sisters imagine a better life- a better world. And I told him that there was no such thing.' I ran my thumb over his mouth, marvelling, and shook my head. 'I never understood- because I couldn't... couldn't believe that it was even possible.' I swallowed, lowering my hand. 'Until now.' His throat bobbed. His kiss that time was deep and thorough, unhurried and intent. I let the dawn creep inside me, let it grow with each movement of his lips and brush of his tongue against mine. Tears pricked beneath my closed eyes. It was the happiest moment of my life.

I followed him into the trees, through the ever-lightening world. His hand was solid and unmovable around mine as we passed through the low-lying mists, and he helped me up a bare hill slick with dew. We sat atop its crest, and I hid my smile as Tamlin put an around my shoulders, tucking me in close. I rested my head against his chest, while he toyed with the flowers in my garland. In silence, we stared out over the rolling green expanse. The sky shifted into periwinkle, and the clouds filled with pink light. Then, like a shimmering disk too rich and clear to be described, the sun slipped over the horizon and lined everything with gold. It was like seeing the world being born, and we were the sole witnesses. Tamlin's arm tightened around me, and he kissed the top of my head. I pulled back, looking up at him. The gold in his eyes, bright with the rising sun, flickered. 'What?' 'My father once told me that I should let my sisters imagine a better life- a better world. And I told him that there was no such thing.' I ran my thumb over his mouth, marvelling, and shook my head. 'I never understood- because I couldn't... couldn't believe that it was even possible.' I swallowed, lowering my hand. 'Until now.' His throat bobbed. His kiss that time was deep and thorough, unhurried and intent. I let the dawn creep inside me, let it grow with each movement of his lips and brush of his tongue against mine. Tears pricked beneath my closed eyes. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Moonlight cool of all-enwrapping blue at sunrise fractures to a rainbow of flavors…. *** It was on a diet of nerve alone when finally I did approach her — like shot-fire fracturing the field— I bore witness to a floating world of midnight— cool and blue-purple, fluid, rainswept and windswept, like the ocean beautifully silent without stiffen down to plain daylight— a beached limb bleaches in the sun… now what was that gross flesh? what that show of knobby knees? what was that taste and preference? that personality to swallow?

They burned everything. Everything I did. Everything I saw. All gone.’ ‘It takes more than photos to stop this train, putha. Leave your pity party, brother. Think of why you were Down There. What was your purpose? Was it just gambling and taking photos and squeezing cock?’ ‘I was there to witness. That is all. All those sunrises and all those massacres existed because I filmed them. Now, they are as dead as me.’ ‘You can whine. Or you can work.

In the kingdom of Iluji, a taboo was only a taboo when it has a non-participating witness. And in this land blanketed with darkness, secret was the code of every deed and the darkness was the only constant observing angel.

Yes indeed! My desires were fulfilled beyond measure. My lover and I emerged from the Bedouin tent a little before sunrise. Finding a quiet spot, we sat in silence, witnessing the morning sun rise above the mountain of Moses, while our host slept peacefully, after an exhausting night of love.

You see?” she said pointing to the horizon. “It seems to coincide with the setting of the sun. I’m interested to see if it happens again at sunrise.” “Me too,” Savannah concurred. “Having just witnessed that amazing display,” Travis said, “I think there’s real merit to your hoax theory, Xenia. That dust rose into the air so thick and so high that I doubt anyone would have difficulty projecting a very high resolution image on it from a very powerful digital projector.” “Indeed,” she agreed. “That would mean that such a projector would have to be set up fairly close by just of the shore right there,” Adam said, pointing to the water. “And if that’s the case,” Mark added, “then we could be right in the middle of some serious criminal activity. I suggest we move our camp immediately.

THE MIRACLE WORKER Jesus said to them, “I have shown you many great miracles from the Father.” John 10:32 NIV God is a miracle worker. Throughout history He has intervened in the course of human events in ways that cannot be explained by science or human rationale. And He’s still doing so today. God’s miracles are not limited to special occasions, nor are they witnessed by a select few. God is crafting His wonders all around us: the miracle of the birth of a new baby; the miracle of a world renewing itself with every sunrise; the miracle of lives transformed by God’s love and grace. Each day, God’s handiwork is evident for all to see and experience. Today, seize the opportunity to inspect God’s hand at work. His miracles come in a variety of shapes and sizes, so keep your eyes and your heart open. Be watchful, and you’ll soon be amazed. There is Someone who makes possible what seems completely impossible. Catherine Marshall Faith means believing in realities that go beyond sense and sight. It is the awareness of unseen divine realities all around you. Joni Eareckson Tada A TIMELY TIP God is in the business of doing miraculous things. You should never be afraid to ask Him for a miracle.

and then their stares met and it felt like her heart stopped and started all over again. For a moment she wasn’t afraid. It was like seeing the sunrise after only witnessing the dark, or the nostalgia of coming home after years of being away. He smiled at her as if he too might be feeling the same thing.

he sat on his couch with Russ and watched the sunrise as he let his thoughts take him where they wanted to take him. Sometimes, that was the only way to really see what you were thinking.

watched the sunrise as he let his thoughts take him where they wanted to take him. Sometimes, that was the only way to really see what you were thinking.

It had nothing to do with the gear or footwear or the backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era. It had only to do with how it felt to be in th wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and desserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets.

When you break the chains of expectations from yourself, When you bring yourself out from the pit of always trying to achieve something, When you just follow your heart to escape the darkest cave that you've been in, Then you finally witness the sunrise of true freedom.

Here in this city whose existence was a suction of crowds into the factories and rejection of them, suction and rejection, repetitive unvarying activity like that of a powerful machine, work irrelevant to climate, to season, to the land or the hour of sunrise or sunset, or the wits or the wishes of any soul among those crowds,

We can’t fix the world, but we can individually step into it with a authenticity that allows us to witness the most beautiful sunrises, which in turn illuminates the scenery around us so that others can see something more intangible to reach for in the midnight of themselves.

To these kids, dates mean very little. They live in the present, and they don't have dates for the present. there is just sunrise and sunset and then another sunrise, and the vents that take place during the day or night.

I move my arm through the air Like I am dancing through time and space Like a child discovering my working body For the very first time I smile and laugh Giddy and delighted At what once escaped my notice for 29 years How wonderful would life be If we could rediscover it With each new sunrise? To awaken to ourselves And witness Every breath Every sound Every sight, feeling, and movement As the miracle it is?

I photographed the Charles Bridge from several angles to capture my desired perspective and composition. Like me, several other amateur photographers had also flocked to the bridge to witness and capture the sunrise as it inked the sky in shades of pink, purple and orange while enjoying magnificent views of the city.