It's starting to get cold in Wisconsin. Nighttime temperatures are in the low 40s Fahrenheit. Now, you can probably imagine that when my mom asked me to take the dog out at 10:00pm, I apathetically agreed. Sure.
So I am out with the dog--the dog that didn't even want to leave her blanket to go outside. We walk down the long sidewalk to the tree line where she usually sniffs around for a moment, finds a spot, and squats. But not tonight. Instead, the dog sniffs around a bit, pauses, and stares off at the trees. After some encouragement, I get her to start sniffing again. She does so reluctantly. Even she didn't want to be outside--forced away from her warm blanket in the house.
But as she sniffing away, I'm sure trying to find a spot she never peed on before, I glance up. And on that cold evening when neither the dog nor I wanted to be outside, the stars appeared. It was one of those starry nights that pictures cannot adequately record (not that my iPhone could even attempt). So I let the dog continue sniffing until she found her spot as I continued to stare above us. Breathtaking.
I have always had a thing for starry nights. Maybe four (or five?) summers ago, I was on a leadership retreat with my college ministry group. It was one of those weekends where you don't remember the details, just the laughs and fireworks (no, true story!). We were in the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin...closest city like 20 miles away. And we took a dirt road to place I could never find again. We shut off the van lights and found ourselves in an open overlook somewhere in a field. The sky was black, and the stars were far and wide. We only stayed maybe thirty/forty-five minutes, but counted well over fifty shooting stars. A breathtaking night sky, uninterrupted by city lights.
So on that forty-degree night, waiting for the dog to go, I couldn't help but feel so small. In a world that is constantly go-go-go, I felt peace in that one fleeting moment. Soon, the dog was ready to go back inside, and I aptly agreed. We walked back up to the house, and left the night sky outside.
He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.
Psalm 147:4 tells us that God knows all of the stars by name. While I didn't necessarily count the number of stars that night, I don't think I could--yet He knows them all. And in a way, we are the stars. God knows us each--our troubles and triumphs--and calls us by name. He knows what lies ahead and just like the night sky, guides us through the cold, dark nights.
The next night, I again agreed to take the dog out. Not because I wanted too, but because I needed to see the stars again. So, off we walked down the same cold sidewalk to the tree line. This time, she apparently knew where she wanted to go and sniffed and squatted quickly. But in the single moment I had out there, I peered up to the sky to find it covered in low clouds. I couldn't see the stars. Disappointed, I walked back inside.
We don't always see the stars, but that doesn't mean they are not there. But it again reminded me that moments are fleeting and it's important to take them when we have them. The night sky helps ground me and remind me that I am one of Gods stars. He knows my name, He knows my trials, and He knows my purpose. He sees me when I am covered by clouds of doubt, or shame, or fear. He walks with me every day, and night, as a child of His Kingdom.
And even on cloudy nights, I will always be know.
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