When I consider Your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?~Psalm 8: 4-5
I seriously love looking at the moon- especially a full moon!
When I was a little girl, I had an early bed time. I had my dollies to keep me company until it got dark when I peeked through the curtains to say hello to my friend, the moon.
I remember the nights when the moon would shine by the window,
peeking through branches of our backyard tree- gentle light falling
onto the folds of my blanket. It was on these nights I would sit and
stare at moon’s face, contemplating the shadows that fell onto its smooth
pearl surface, feeling special as the clear, white light washed over
I would imagine myself floating and leaping as I twirled weightlessly
in the land of white dust, and leaving nothing but the light footprints
of my dancing feet along with a trail of swirling powder behind me.
think of having gravity leave me, as I soar into the night sky of
twinkling stars where the Earth looks perfect, a beautiful, sparkling
jewel of life, with patterns of green, clouds, and bright city lights in
And when I drifted back down to the planet, back to the bed where I propped myself up, there the moon would be, smiling the soft
reflected sun rays into the window, an inch higher in the black velvet
of night. I would adjust my view so I could gaze at the full, round face,
and wonder more of things, like how moon’s surface hadn’t changed in the
longest time, and that footprints had virtually been stamped on it,
staying in the dust where nothing stirred its existence.
I felt, on those nights, that I could have looked up at the moon
forever, soaking up the reassuring glow, cherishing the moments I spent
passing each second traveling in the dark midnight with a magical
blanket of the calm, full moon wrapped around me.
And in my dreams, I would fly on in the sleepy yet alive city, carrying me in the
late, quiet air with the distant chirping of a cricket symphony until
the moon would let me flutter down in my sleep, so high above the tree,
wishing me a farewell as its' light reached the edge of my bed, and
glazed out the windowsill, leaving me with the still, dusty memories of
our dance that night. And yet I would dream on, of the next time moon
shall come to greet me, in the tangles of the tree branches.
While I thank God for the stars that light the night sky, I also thank Him for our imaginations and the gift of windows.