It had been a particularly trying week. The sadly common conversations with folk struggling through their own particular problems was exacerbated by the tragic deaths of two young people. A third lay in a coma awaiting her fate.

Questions that desperately sought answers found none. Words of intended comfort sounded more than a little hollow. A darkness held me in its grip and the days of rain only served to accentuate the permeating sadness.

Sleep comes hard in such circumstances and nights are long, filled with those inner conversations that seem so profound at the time and so shallow in the morning light.

And what light there was! The rains had moved on to reveal that brilliant blue base that serves as a palette for so many immeasurably beautiful mountain mornings. A gentle run before too many of my neighbors awoke to share in my passing pleasure allowed the opportunity to place one or two thoughts into perspective.

The central metaphor in my religious tradition is that of death and resurrection. Unfortunately, it is passed around with such abandon in Christian circles that too often we fail to respect its power for portraying truth, the truth that is most evident in ordinary things...if a blue sky after rainy days can ever be described as ordinary.

In the morning brilliance, clarity of thought presented itself as a holy gift but clarity is very different than certainty. Glib answers and facile philosophies are the much too easy responses to unfathomable tragedies. By morning's light, I am reminded again of the terrible temptation to try and make sense of what is, by any rational estimation, simply, sadly, nonsense.

Another day begins, and with it the opportunities of this life appear again and invite our participation, a participation that cannot avoid pain or the deep sorrow that is present for so many folk right now. The daybreak also hints of a promise implicit in the passage of all our days and captured by that powerful metaphor of life and death and life.

As anyone who knows me can testify, I am not an optimist. I do not think only good should happen nor am I surprised when the bad so often appears. But I am hopeful. I do believe that in the midst of tragedy there exists the possibility for triumph. Sometimes these victories are bold and dramatic. Most often, they are simple, subtle reminders of the power of the spirit. We might argue as to the source of that spirit but I will never doubt its reality. I have seen and shared in it too often to questions its power.

One of the great saints, Julian of Norwich, once offered this, for me always, comforting comment, "All will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well." I savored the spiritual sweetness as I loped off the miles and put on, what St. Paul called, "the armor of light".

A morning of such breathtaking beauty serves as a kind of siren's call to celebration. Not to pretend that life is better than it is, that would be terribly difficult in the midst of such tragedies as we have shared, but that life is surely rich with possibility and infused with promises of meaning and purpose to those willing to engage in it fully. Such a celebration is not the stuff of giggles or guffaws but the quiet and wise notice of a spiritual presence that can infuse the darkest scene with saving light.

Dante imagined a sign over hell that read, "Abandon all hope, ye that enter." A chilling definition of hell if ever there was one. Morning sunshine will not eliminate the problems and pain that often fill our lives but it can allow us a glimpse of Dante's wisdom.