“Have you ever in your life commanded the morning, and caused the dawn to know its place . . . ?” Job 38:12

The passages at the end of the book of Job, where God addresses Job, are some of the most phenomenal pieces of poetry and truth ever written. Each stunning phrase follows so rapidly upon the other, that they are breathtaking—making for light-headedness when I read them. But I had to pause on this one as I looked at this image that I took of dusk’s gate in the drifting shadows.

Dawn and dusk are both such times of intensity in any day. The qualities of light dance in different ways when the sun is low to the horizon. Photographers search out the most riveting places in the world during these two periods of daylight to frame its magnificence. In Job, the Lord says that we can’t command their timing, nor can we plot their arrival and departure. And this is so true. How laughable, really, to think that we could control them. But I do know that by our familiarity with them they have become strong metaphors for us. Dawn is the hope-filled start of something new, and dusk is its closing.

For many years I have awakened watching the new day’s sun filter through the leaves as it rises, and I have also thrilled to the adventure of finding its expressive lights at dusk. I realize that in appearance they can have great similarities, even though in meaning they are quite different to us. It struck me that I could actually walk along the streets of dusk or dawn, and not know which light it was, without analyzing the direction of its emanation. The quality of the breaking morning light has its twin in early evening’s closing canvas.

I wondered if the Lord had a message in this revelation. Is it possible that in the Lord’s planning of the sunrise He has placed in its luster a tinge of dusk, so that we won’t cling too tightly to control it? Could it be that in dusk’s sienna paintings that He has placed dawn’s glowing belief in the newness of promise? Is it possible that the Lord has found our metaphors to be too one-dimensional? We can find hope in a closing that points to more wholeness. And we can be rooted and grounded in the seemingly wild exhilaration of new possibilities by knowing that there will be a blessed closure.

It also says from Job’s sainted lips in 7:4: “ When I lie down I say, ‘When shall I arise?’ but the night continues, and I am continually tossing until dawn.” How honest Job was with us in his book that he said had to be written. When I find myself awake and tossing in the night watch like Job, I now want to remember dusk’s lit-up pledge that the dawn will bring a new assurance of meaning. The One who sets the lights has left a message in both day’s beginning and day’s end for us to hope in His reliability. In the deepest part of the evening His lullaby to us is to believe for His next light. They will return with His truth and His warming rays having the consistency of day following night. I just don’t know of any promise more profoundly telling than His readiness to give us discernment by the return of His light!

My prayer is for the Job within me to be swaddled in His light, both morning and evening, and for the stretches in between, to watch for His stunning resonance off the horizon—it will bring with it a curving gate that opens onto expanses of bright significance.