Seeing Stars

Not long ago, someone shared a photo on Facebook of a sky at night, over the ocean. I don't remember where it was taken (somewhere in the U.S.) but the picture took my breath away. I stared and stared, mesmerized.

There were so...many...stars.

The photo (even better than the one pictured here) was taken far from the influence of light and people. It captured the glory, the majesty, the beauty, the intricacy. The absolute grandness of what is out there.

I kept thinking that all of that is out there, all of the time. This was not doctored. This was not just a scenic spot in one far away place. All of that wonder is just beyond me, even here where I live, where each night I see just a sprinkling of stars in the sky due to the nearby lights of Hartford.

And I wondered: How would life be different if each night we could see all of the stars? Because I really believe it would be.

What would we do, how would we perceive life and our joys and heartaches if each evening we were reminded that we are part of something so much bigger? We are insignificant yet gloriously unique in this galaxy among countless galaxies.

Would we think more about our purpose? Would we be more likely to let the little things go? Would we be more grateful? Would we wonder a little bit more about eternity, about how we got here, and why?

I think so.

I wish we could all see the stars like this, always. There is something about looking beyond man-made things in this age of self. There is something humbling that I think we all need.

Back in 2001, the day after the September 11 attacks, the TV news was continuing to drone near my cubicle at work when my boss brought several of us roses. There had been a rose sale going on and she left bouquets on our desks. I came back from lunch and sat and just looked, as I had gazed at those stars in the picture. The television went on reporting no answers, just more horror, but for a moment, it faded away. I was stunned by the beauty. I got lost in it. I stared at the complexity of a rose, the way the petals wrap around and around. They were so beautiful, I wanted to cry. Part of me wanted to cry because no human hand had made that. They were evidence of an intricate design. They were order in the midst of chaos. They reminded me there was still beauty, when I couldn't see it; that there was a plan when everything seemed out of control.

We think we are so smart, so accomplished, so evolved in our thinking. But I love the site of creation because sometimes we need to feel small.

In these days of the selfie, maybe sometimes we can turn the camera around again. Outward. Upward. To set our focus on more weighty and more beautiful matters.

Oh, how I wish. I wish we could always see the stars.

Little, Beautiful Victories

Two or three years ago I noticed the mountain laurel bush in our front yard was barely blooming. Upon closer inspection, I realized a number of the leaves were yellowing and spotted.

Yard work and gardening are things I would love to be more skilled at and spend more time on. I try. But our yard could really use a complete overhaul that would cost thousands of dollars. And juggling being home with the kids with freelance work doesn't leave as much time for outdoor chores. But I do my best with limited time and knowledge.

The next year I took a look at the bush earlier on the spring and saw the real issue was this viney type of invasive plant that had grown up adjacent to the bush that was now attempting to take it over. I took out my shears and started cutting away...but before I could finish, life got in the way that day, and the next, and before I'd known it I didn't get back to the project. My beautiful mountain laurel looked more and more sickly.

So often the last few years I have felt as if I am fighting a losing battle with our yard. Wherever I look, invasive weeds seem to be taking over. I'm not sure how they got started. I only know that getting rid of them is extremely difficult. I will pull up vines and pricker-type bushes only to have them reappear. If I'm not extremely vigilant and we have stretch of rain I'll go outside and things are nearly back to the way they were. It's hard not to feel discouraged.

As I've pulled up prickers I've often had the thought that they are similar to some of the issues and conflicts we deal with in life. Just snipping off the surface does little. The only way to truly get rid of them is to remove the root. But sometimes roots go much deeper than you think. Sometimes you pull and pull but you don't get it all. Like a piece of tumor that was unreachable. They always come back. And sometimes, even when you get all of those weeds out, just the presence of empty soil with nothing else planted there is enough to invite the weeds to grow again fairly effortlessly.

This year very early on I noticed the evil vine suffocating my mountain laurel. Over several days I took to it furiously. There were some parts high up I could not reach -- but I managed to eliminate the root source. I hacked and hacked, feeling actually angry at what had happened to my poor bush. Nearly every leaf had at least some yellowing or spots. Some branches no longer had vegetation and were basically dead. I broke off the dead parts, not even knowing if I was supposed to. But I made sure to leave anything that showed even a little hint of life.

I took to this bush the best I could, and then I forgot about it for a little while. It wasn't until the other day, when I was outside in the afternoon and caught a glimpse of this:

"Hey, look!" I called to anyone who'd listen. "It's blooming! It's really blooming!" My kids thought I maybe had developed an over zealous case of spring giddiness. That's okay. No one else needed to understand.

Sometimes we all need a little reminder that our efforts to do the right thing, to work on the stuff we know we need to work on, are not in vain. "Do not be weary in well doing," the verse in Galatians says. But sometimes that's not so easy. Especially when nothing seems to change.

That's why my mountain laurel bush, which still is ensconced in part by an old, dead vine, is so beautiful this year. Sometimes a small victory can undeniably be one of the sweetest.