“To whom will you compare me?
Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One.
Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
not one of them is missing. --Isaiah 40:25-26
There was a meteor shower last night, did you see it? The Camelopardalids, results of a newly-discovered comet trail, made their debut over North America last night, and will continue overnight for a few days. Meteorologists predicted it would be a spectacular show, maybe as many as a hundred shooting stars per hour, and most active after midnight.
Now, if you know me at all, I am definitely a morning person-- and not a stay-up-till-midnight-for-a-meteor-shower kind of girl. But I had had a nap. And-- I had had iced tea for dinner. So I decided I would go for it.
I grabbed a jacket, wished I had taken a blanket, as well. I headed out the back door, and Mama Finch didn't even bother flying off her nest as I went.
I have an automatic porch light that comes on to be sure the burglars can see their way to my door all right-- and it came on right on cue. I went to the back of my yard, found the Big Dipper and the North Star to orient myself, dragged my Adirondack chair to a good spot, and sat down to wait for the light to go off. It was a gorgeous evening. Just gorgeous.
As I sat, I realized how deep the quiet had become. The only sounds I was hearing were human sounds: voices next door, a radio recapping the Indians game from the house behind-- cars and motorcycles whizzing down the Interstate a mile away.
No chirps, no buzzes-- not even a dog barking in the neighborhood.
Everything was bedded down for the night, accepting of the darkness-- except us. People. God's most favored creation just can't find comfort in the night, it seems.
I sat, listening to my own deep breathing, feeling the heaviness of the dark (even in my citified setting). My phone buzzed softly, bringing a text from Montana and a smile to my face. Waiting.
Then it happened: the first shooting star to cross my path of vision. It moved more slowly than I expected-- a wonderful benefit for these inexperienced eyes.
I made a wish (as I had been told to do), smiled and settled back to watch for the next one.
I saw nowhere near a hundred shooting stars, but I did see a handful.
But the best part, for me, was having found an excuse simply to sit outside, late at night, alone under the great canopy of heaven.
To realize, once again, just how tiny I am in the Grand Scheme of Things. I am but a speck, my life a glimmer (if even that).
And yet.
And yet in the eyes of the Creator, I am as important, as beloved as anything. And I am distinctly different, unique among all God's handiwork.
Never before and never again will there be another Heidi. Or-- another you.
Each of us was carefully, deliberately created to perfection. And while we may have mucked that part up a bit . . . still we are created in the image of the Divine. We are called by name, beloved of God.
And not a one of us is missing, for when we are absent God desires us and invites us to return. Time after time after time, no matter how badly we behave, still the Almighty One awaits our return, wooing us and pursuing us across time and eternity to bring us Home.
One might think that sitting in the dark under the vast expanse of the night sky would lead one to feel less significant.
Imagine my surprise and delight to come inside feeling more aware of my place at the Table.
Now, if you know me at all, I am definitely a morning person-- and not a stay-up-till-midnight-for-a-meteor-shower kind of girl. But I had had a nap. And-- I had had iced tea for dinner. So I decided I would go for it.
I grabbed a jacket, wished I had taken a blanket, as well. I headed out the back door, and Mama Finch didn't even bother flying off her nest as I went.
I have an automatic porch light that comes on to be sure the burglars can see their way to my door all right-- and it came on right on cue. I went to the back of my yard, found the Big Dipper and the North Star to orient myself, dragged my Adirondack chair to a good spot, and sat down to wait for the light to go off. It was a gorgeous evening. Just gorgeous.
As I sat, I realized how deep the quiet had become. The only sounds I was hearing were human sounds: voices next door, a radio recapping the Indians game from the house behind-- cars and motorcycles whizzing down the Interstate a mile away.
No chirps, no buzzes-- not even a dog barking in the neighborhood.
Everything was bedded down for the night, accepting of the darkness-- except us. People. God's most favored creation just can't find comfort in the night, it seems.
I sat, listening to my own deep breathing, feeling the heaviness of the dark (even in my citified setting). My phone buzzed softly, bringing a text from Montana and a smile to my face. Waiting.
Then it happened: the first shooting star to cross my path of vision. It moved more slowly than I expected-- a wonderful benefit for these inexperienced eyes.
I made a wish (as I had been told to do), smiled and settled back to watch for the next one.
I saw nowhere near a hundred shooting stars, but I did see a handful.
But the best part, for me, was having found an excuse simply to sit outside, late at night, alone under the great canopy of heaven.
To realize, once again, just how tiny I am in the Grand Scheme of Things. I am but a speck, my life a glimmer (if even that).
And yet.
And yet in the eyes of the Creator, I am as important, as beloved as anything. And I am distinctly different, unique among all God's handiwork.
Never before and never again will there be another Heidi. Or-- another you.
Each of us was carefully, deliberately created to perfection. And while we may have mucked that part up a bit . . . still we are created in the image of the Divine. We are called by name, beloved of God.
And not a one of us is missing, for when we are absent God desires us and invites us to return. Time after time after time, no matter how badly we behave, still the Almighty One awaits our return, wooing us and pursuing us across time and eternity to bring us Home.
One might think that sitting in the dark under the vast expanse of the night sky would lead one to feel less significant.
Imagine my surprise and delight to come inside feeling more aware of my place at the Table.
Come. Sit over here by me at the Children's Table. Enjoy the view.
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