We’ve all done it, at least I hope most of us have. I know I do and it surprises me (in the best way) how readily I cry when it happens. It’s those times when there’s no push and no pull. No distraction. Just you alone outdoors. And it is night. You tilt your head back and see the boundarylessness above. No, you’re not seeing with your eyes. That’s not it exactly. God allows you to look with a different sight, even if it is just temporary. If you looked too long at everything up there, your mind would burst.
There are different layers, temperatures, and textures of air and clouds. Then after that, outer space. Beyond that, well, you just can’t make a mental image of it.
But the lights–those you see easily.
Oh! Those lights! Points on pins from here but countless oceans in depth and height up there. Are they just planets? Stars? Only matter? Maybe it’s more. Maybe the lights are more alive than we know.
And then it happens. Everything hushes. Any worry, fear, and awfulness that pressed into you like a molten railroad spike is lifted. Nothing is more powerful than those lights in that heaving endless dark space. Up there. Nothing is in your heart except overwhelming gratitude and amazement.
That’s not the end though. Because at the same time you are marveling countless lights up there, they are looking down on us here. Looking and smiling upon our lighted homes with fondness. Our homes where we struggle and enjoy and deal and cope with our lives. (Don’t ask me what those whoevers up there look like because I don’t know. Our brains couldn’t handle knowing. But I do believe they’re watching for sure.)
Don’t misunderstand me either–those looking down from up there aren’t seeing the lights in our lamps or lamp posts or neon signs. Rather it is the light that comes from our speech of awe and humility. It emanates from our homes, where we seek relief in sleep every night.
May none of our homes ever be dim when they look.