It is 6:50 a.m. as I emerge from the lobby of Burman Hall. There is a pink glow, fairly small in area, illuminating the thick but not opaque layer of altocumulus clouds in the eastern sky. I discern a promise of a colorful sunrise, but as I ride my bicycle towards the music building, my view of the lower horizon is eclipsed by buildings and trees. I see no further shades of color but the prevailing gray until I have gone through line in the cafeteria, and the lower horizon is once again visible to me. Now the illumination has spread itself over a slightly larger area of the cloud cover and has turned into a very light and delicate shade of purple whose translucence evokes deep peace and stillness. But a couple of moments later the horizon is completely gray again and all hint of color has disappeared. The impression has been left that, for the benefit of all who would see it, a quiet and subtle hint of timelessness, in fact, of Yahweh, has broken into time and caused it to stand still for a fleeting moment.

Author's Note: On Tuesday, April 18, 1989, as a senior at Andrews University, I left the dormitory for breakfast at the cafeteria just before seven. On the way, and through the eastern side of the cafeteria (all windows), I witnessed a sunrise of an exceptionally subtle beauty that inspired me to write this brief prose account.