There is a stillness in a starry sky, an openness cradled in the darkness, a whisper of something greater than self. Riveting moments of awareness risk an assent to the reality of that something greater than self, of the soft brush of the divine. They challenge the mundane routines of daily life, the self-absorption and frenetic pace of 21st century living.
Those moments are everywhere: there is a tenderness in a child clinging to a parent’s neck; there is a poignance in an adult child helping an elderly parent into a pew. There is a kindness in the courtesy wave after a difficult highway merge; there is gentleness in the cashier’s patient wait for coupons and a softness in the nurse’s pouring meds. There is a glow in elderly partners holding hands, and in students reaching a new realization.
In all these moments, the divine and the human linger together, waiting, even wanting, to be seen. To truly see means putting aside preoccupations, stereotypes, and sometimes even purpose. It means being willing to discover the something better, something more, than what was there before. It means intentionally choosing to notice where we are when we are there. It means focusing fully on who is there and why. It means believing that looking matters and believing that this moment has real meaning. It means trusting that what is created is actually an invitation to look into the very work of the Creator.
The crack of a baseball bat and the roar of a stadium has a magic of its own, but in between, tucked in there, is the unifying moment of common experience, a thrill that exists in thousands of souls in a single moment. And so it is that the human and the divine dance together in thousands of instances. To see it, to know it, is a skill. But it is also a gift beyond measure. It is the assurance that no one of us exists alone and that as life unfolds with its inevitable weights and worries, there is also the miracle of still skies and starry nights, sleeping children and wide open fields.
At Home as a Catholic 