On Easter morning, I woke up way before the roosters clocked in for duty and made my way through the heavily wooded hollow toward the Ozark mountain lake, which sits a long stone’s throw from my home.

I carefully perched myself on a flat outcropping of limestone table rock set high above the quiet waters and gazed at the star-washed sky as it slowly surrendered to the yellow-orange of the approaching dawn.

For me, there is something peaceful, even spiritual, about being outdoors, alone, immersed in the natural beauty of a new spring day.

I don't know why, but I am comforted by the trusted, predictable pattern of night flowing into day and darkness into light.

Although it has been repeated thousands of times during my lifetime, this ritual of renewal, the freshness of the morning, still fascinates me.

I must confess, however, that I haven’t paid much attention to the sunrise for quite awhile.

Before being diagnosed with multiple myeloma four years ago, my dance card was rather full. Work and more work, family responsibilities, church, meetings on top of meetings, and projects of all sorts, dictated my schedule. I did my best to keep moving forward and stay in control of a busy, hectic life. Some days, I just tried to keep my head above water. Some days, I barely managed that.

I certainly didn’t take time to watch the sun rise or the moon glow or the stars shine. I didn’t make time to watch and listen to the rhythm of the waves roll in and out of the lake. I didn’t make time for lots of important things.

But circumstances changed when myeloma rudely darkened my doorstep. Any semblance of balance and priorities and plans flew out of the proverbial window. Gone was my preoccupation with getting ahead, making my mark. My efforts became targeted at something much more sobering: doing what I could to stay alive.

Now I find myself thinking, sometimes to obsession, about things I’d never previously entertained: blood counts and blood clots, bone pain, side effects of treatment, beating cancer before it beats me, and so on. Even worse are the thoughts of leaving my children and wife.

Many myeloma patients have endured what I have faced: multiple rounds of high-dose induction and maintenance chemotherapy, stem cell transplants, surgeries, infections, hospitalizations, and more. There is nothing special about my path.

Thankfully, I have been off of all myeloma medications for five months and have been in complete response to treatment since May of 2009. All in all, I am doing very well.

But sick or well, I have missed too many sunrises.

So on this Easter morning, before the church bells called all to service, before the ham dinner and brightly colored eggs were ooohed and ahhhed over, and before the general busyness of the holiday began, I trekked to the rocky cliff above the lake to think and to pray and to spy the sunrise in solitude.

My thoughts centered on the overwhelming gratitude I have for God that I am still here with my family. I am still walking and talking and smiling, some days better than others, but I am alive!

I recalled the privilege of having met scores of inspiring people who courageously bear their own battles with myeloma.

My prayers were in remembrance of my multiple myeloma friends who have sadly passed away, including three remarkable people within the last week.

My prayers were said for the amazing caregivers, families, and friends who sustain us and for the people all over the world who dedicate their time, talents, intellect, and passion to defeat cancers such as multiple myeloma.

My thoughts turned to the people who will find out this week that they have myeloma. May their roads be easier than ours.

I resolved to take the rich metaphor of the sunrise to heart and to remain hopeful that this darkness that so many of us face will someday turn to light. I believe that it will.

Happy Easter and Happy Passover to those who celebrate, and Happy Spring to all. Get up early someday soon and catch the sunrise!