Dec 15, 2014


I am in a Greyhound bus on the way to Orlando, and I am looking at the night sky. There is no other car on the road, no streetlights, only a short constant row of dark trees blocking the horizon. The sky is almost all there is outside my window. I am looking at a drape of black spotted with stars like splotches of paint, so bold, so clear. And even here, as on the wall of my dorm room, Orion the hunter watches over me. 

Jupiter creeps out over the row of trees, and with my Sky Safari app (thank you Prof. Penprase and Cosmic Origins!), I learn some new stars: Procyon from the Canis Minor constellation, and the heads of the Gemini twins. The entire time I am thinking the heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Look at His beautiful handiwork all the way out there, and also consider His handiwork in us. 

Occasionally a series of super bright streetlamps come barging their way in, and the stars give way. Or a few cars with bright headlamps, or a little rest stop. When the fierce human lights command their power, the black is just black; the stars knowingly take a step back. I try to close my eyes, get some sleep, but the stars are still whispering. 

It is dark again, and the stars reappear. Hello, home. 

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