For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities,
His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen,
being understood from His workmanship, so that men are without excuse.
Romans 1:20 (BSB).
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One of the great phenomenon I wish to see before I leave this planet is Aurora Borealis or the Northern Lights as it is commonly known in Scotland. Those who have saw it can hardly describe how it makes them feel. I recall reading many years ago about a solar eclipse and the people of Argentina rejoiced, clapped and some gave way to tears.
There’s a Yoruba word, Aṣọ̀rò, which means “something hard to say.” It captures the essence of those moments when emotions swell so deeply that words falter. We’ve all felt it—in the quiet ache of love, the beauty of a fleeting moment, or the vastness of a star-filled sky—a stirring within us that language cannot fully contain.
One winter morning, Scotland’s west coast awoke to a sky ablaze with colour. The sunrise stretched beyond the horizon, bathing the land in a glow so radiant that it seemed to defy the chill, though the temperature barely hovered above zero. It was one of those mornings that calls to you, tugging at your heart in the quiet hours, urging you to move before the day succumbs to routine. Without speaking, my wife and I leapt from bed, united by an unspoken understanding that this moment was not to be missed. Bundled against the cold, we made our way to the beach, where the waves lapped lazily against the shore as if even the sea had been lulled into reverence by the beauty of the morning.
There’s something about a sunrise that stirs a person deeply. It holds a strange melancholy, an aching beauty that words can’t quite capture. I’ve often wondered why we feel so profoundly when we witness the break of dawn. Perhaps it’s the quiet majesty of it all—the colors painting a masterpiece just for us in a moment that will never come again. Or maybe it’s the reminder of time’s passage—the end of night, of rest, of dreaming, and the beginning of a new day, laden with possibilities, with work, with life unfolding before us.
As we walked, the frost-hardened sand crunched beneath our feet. The air was crisp and clear, and in the distance, the calls of migrating Canada geese broke the stillness. Their V-shaped formations etched across the pale sky as they journeyed from the Western Isles to the milder southern borders for the winter. The sight of these creatures, driven by instinct and survival, added a poignancy to the morning. There is a wildness to nature that always feels just out of reach, a wonder and a sadness intertwined. Perhaps it’s the reminder that everything is in motion—the tides, the seasons, the geese—all migrating, all changing, as are we.
There are moments in nature—a sunrise, the sight of the aurora borealis, the shadowed magic of an eclipse, or images from NASA of galaxies spinning vast and indifferent—that render us speechless. We are overcome by the immensity of it all, by the realization of how small we are in a universe so grand. And yet, in these moments, we also feel a sense of belonging, a connection to something far greater than ourselves. It’s as though the Creator has left fingerprints in the frost, in the morning light, in the flight of geese—whispers of glory that invite us to pause, to marvel, to reflect.
Perhaps this is the true gift of such mornings: they awaken within us a spiritual longing, a sense that we are part of a story far bigger than the day-to-day. They remind us that, like the geese, we too are on a journey, guided by something deep within, seeking a home we cannot yet fully grasp. And while words may fail to express the depth of these moments, perhaps that’s the point. Some things are not meant to be spoken but felt—aṣọ̀rò—a truth carried not in the mind, but in the soul.
