When I stepped out for my jog yesterday, I was given a little hope.  It was a clear morning and I glanced up to see if the spider (how seasonal!) I saw hanging from our porch roof Monday was still there.  Instead of the spider I spied the moon.  And just above it, looking as if it was falling into the bowl of its crescent, was Jupiter.  It was beautiful, but I know better than to try to photograph nighttime objects in the sky with a phone.  (I’ll show you the spider instead; after all, it’s October.)  What gave me hope, though, was when I stepped off the porch, I saw a neighbor about half a block away, outside with their children, all looking at the sky.  I presumed they were looking at the moon and Jupiter, because it was really a stunning sight.  This gives me hope because someone was showing their children the wonders of the sky.

I go jogging as soon as it’s light enough to do so.  I’m generally back home before the sun rises.  And I pay attention to other people I encounter in the twilight.  I’d never seen this family outside before.  I can only start my jog around 6:30 these days; in the summer it’s closer to 4:30.  Looking at the sky is cause for hope.  We need to teach our children to do so as well.  It’s been cloudy around here the past few days.  I had a later start on Monday, the day of the spider, because clouds kept it darker than the naked sky.  A clear firmament is a thing of wonder.  I don’t look at the sky nearly enough any more.  I stare at a screen for most of the waking day.  

Last October a colleague invited me to talk about Weathering the Psalms to her students at Princeton Seminary.  The class was held outside so we could see the sky.  That memory is one I treasure.  While writing that book I explored, not nearly enough, the idea that the sky has always been associated with the divine.  It holds more than we can imagine, despite all the “empty” space.  I took an astronomy course in high school.  When I took one in college the math stymied me.  But still, when it’s clear, I can be caught staring at the sky.  I don’t know who the neighbors were—we only know the names of the family next door—but I do know that we both have some kind of appreciation for the beauty of the heavens.  And that’s cause for hope.