Rays bounce to the north, south, east, and west, painting a cross of light over a pitch dark sky. Supermoon circles large in the center of a bright, shining, old, rugged cross.
I sit on the corner of her bed, watch my sleeping beauty breathe, and I stare at the moon.
“God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.” –Martin Luther
Tonight, God wrote the gospel on the moon, and I needed it more than I knew.
Many days, I gulp down living water early.
But then I run through days, where the gospel feels lost on me.
Some days start on a high note, but tangle up in chaos before we reach the middle. Some days, I have to convince myself to try get on top of it all. Instead, I feel irritated. I can’t stop moving, but I’m only running in circles.
When I finally sit down for a few minutes without little people asking for more pieces of me, I ask God really mature and selfless questions.
Why won’t they ever leave me alone?
It’s not what I really want, other than the opportunity to pause and re-center.
The night of the supermoon, it hit me.
The way of the moon is to wax and wane, and the light can all but disappear sometimes.
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