Most mornings between 7:28 and 7:57 a.m., I’m driving east down 28th Street to work. Just a couple of weeks ago, the blinding began: the sun screamed through my dust-smeared windshield; I tilted the visor down, but the sun slipped just beneath it, assaulting my retinas before I’d even had my morning coffee.

It’s been a few weeks now, and this glare has become daily cargo—my face tenses as I squintily eye the neighboring cars speeding ahead of me, turning behind me, jerking to a halt at the sudden stoplights.

On the cusp of this first fall of my post-grad life, I’ve carried tenseness not only around my eyes, but in my mind, in my body. The people around me are ever-moving, my family scattered, my best friend gone, life rhythms underdeveloped and unsteady. I’ve been living life out of laundry bins and open boxes—still not settled. 

Headlines stare me down: famine in Palestine, schoolchildren never to return home, injustices assaulting fellow Americans—we’re surrounded by an apathy epidemic. Do you feel it? It’s blinding.

I’m grateful for the occasional troupe of trees that offer moments of respite: lunchtime conversations, grilled chicken sandwiches and roasted vegetables for dinner, peach juice dribbling down my chin, a breezy boat ride on a Sunday afternoon, a text from a friend, a coworker popping in to say hello.

But the shade never seems to last long enough. I put my sunglasses on and take them off again, I adjust the sun visor in different ways—I simply can’t extinguish the glare. I like to convince myself that I’m grateful for it. There would be something wrong with my eyes if it didn’t bother me, something wrong with my empathy if I didn’t feel the weight of change, the weight of injustice.

Here’s the most amazing part of it all: just when I think my eyes will never recover, the sun will never rise above the visor, I turn onto Breton Road and the scene shifts.

Golden light kisses tree branches and porch steps—golden that reminds me of childhood evenings on the double bike with Dad, early-morning cousin swims in Ludington, a game of driveway P-I-G before my brother’s competitive streak hit full force. Golden like my perception of the world before the grossest ugly had made itself known. Golden like the mouthwatering taste of a home-grilled burger on the cottage porch after seven hours of swimming and obstacle courses and mermaid flips underwater. Golden like a campfire conversation with seven new friends. Golden like hope.

I think the golden glow feels all the more beautiful after the dust-amplified blaze of a few minutes ago.

And I must remember: soon the sun will rise a little later—lightly brushing the crimson leaves during my morning commute.

Madeline Witvliet

Madeline Witvliet (’25) graduated from Calvin with a degree in English. She can be found in coffee shops in Eastown, exploring Michigan’s state parks, or singing with Calvin’s Alumni Choir. Madeline enjoys spending time outdoors, crafting, and cooking Mediterranean-inspired meals.