Stargazing (I live in extended metaphor)

The other night, my family decided to go out and look at the stars. So we got into our van and headed out past the touch of streetlights, down long stretches of shadowy gravel road so that we could see stars uninhibited by the artificial brightness of the city.

It is amazing how loud the quietness of nighttime is. Staring up at the stars, you can almost feel your own blood rushing in your veins, making a terrible, dissonant music with the songs of crickets and wind snapping in the trees. We didn't spend long craning our necks toward the sky, but being out there in the oppressive darkness made me glad I was with my family. The stars would be a cold, distant comfort if I were to be wandering the earth alone under nightfall.

And you know what? Sometimes life feels like that: loneliness in the deepest nighttime. Sometimes life feels like the darkness of the night sky will never be lifted; even street lights are a poor excuse for the sun's rays. More than other times, right now I feel a little-too-aware of the not-so-daytime things in my life. There's just a lot of change happening, a lot of things to try not to worry about. But it's ok. Even when the sun is gone, there's still enough light in the sky to remind me that I'm not alone.

And here's the thing. The distant stars are always shining, regardless of the time of day here on earth, piercing darkness from millions of miles away. And sometimes you have to chase the darkest parts of the earth to even see them, those tiny steadfast lights that twinkle on the deep blue canvas. It's ok to face the darkness sometimes. God placed the stars there for you. They can guide you home. They can remind you that there is a God whose love for you is more infinite than the stars He calls by name. It doesn't mean it will always feel this way. The night is never easy. But without it, no stars. I think that's meant to mean something.


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