Up

The first night we were at the cabin, Lis, David, Dad and I were all outside on the deck while Mom and Carl were inside discussing philosophy. (Or theology. I wasn't really listening.) After a bit, Lis and I decided to come in to play cards, and on my way inside, I stopped to tilt my head back to glance up at the sky.

And I stopped. I stood there, transfixed, until my neck began to ache and I was dizzy. So many stars.

We have lived in populated areas ever since we got married. Usually when we visit our childhood homes we take a moment or two to look up at the night sky, unpolluted by light, but even there I don't remember seeing stars like I did that night on the St. Lawrence. The longer I looked, the more they seemed to multiply. Lis came to see what was keeping me, and then she stopped and stared, too. And we marveled.

I've been finding, lately, that I am more inclined to stop and look up. I spend much of my days with my eyes lowered, to those two little people who are so much smaller than I am, to the work that has to be done, to the mess on the floor, to my own aching body.

And then I look up. Whether it be a sky so thickly peppered with stars that it almost seems as though the black punctuates the light, rather than the other way 'round, or the sun shining greenly through a veil of leaves, or a sky so blue it gives a new definition to the word, there is such beauty and strength to be found. Oddly enough, it is in looking up that my feet become more firmly grounded.

The medievals believed that the heavenly bodies danced in the sky. They were compelled to move, not by cold scientific gravity, but by love for their Creator. They danced to glorify him.

When my days are filled with drudgery and grey moments, I look up, and I watch the Great Dance, and my feet start to remember the ancient melody. I too am compelled by love.

In looking up, I can dance for him.