Continuation-the end.

Continued from this post.

Part of my spirit longed for someone to share this beautiful experience with, but the rest wished to hide it as a secret gift from the Creator Himself. In that moment, as I pondered the great kindness of the Author of the vast universe around me, someone rather ungracefully stumbled out of the auditorium and, consequently, into my quiet hideaway. “Is this a visitor or an intruder?” I wondered as I looked over my shoulder for an answer to this all-important question. Breathless and red-faced, the blond haired girl flung herself upon the chair across from mine exclaiming “Boy, it’s hot in there!” I cringed, if not externally, in my heart (to my shame) when I realized who it was. Visitors and intruders are two veritably different types of guests.

This particular guest, Stacy*, had been coming to our church for a few years with her friend, who has been part of LBC practically since birth. If Stacy’s loud, unrefined behavior was any indication of her home life, she had quite literally been starved for attention from her family. Coming to LBC, having friendships that centered around Jesus, may very well have saved her from crumbling under the pressure of any trouble at home. If I had known less of her background, I would have been quite annoyed at her noisy intrusion into my peaceful reception of this secret gift. However, I willingly (joyfully, even) accepted her presence on the deck as an opportunity to love her like Jesus does, even if it was just to listen to her. We engaged in some brief chatter about all of the places she has traveled in her twelve or thirteen years, about the constellations above us, about what we enjoyed that weekend and what we wished were different (namely, that the retreat were longer). She, too, felt sorry about having to go home the next day and I felt sorry that she might feel lonely when she was separated from so many friends again. Stacy is the sort of person who is determined to part of all the “fun,” so as quickly as she had entered my hide-away, she scampered down the stairs towards the newly ignited bonfire. I watched the smoke billow up towards the sky, my sky, and said a prayer for my young friend.

Shortly after my eyes had been re-acquainted with the twinkling of the stars, I saw it. A flash of light that seemed to jet away as quickly as it appeared, while its stream of light lingered. A shooting star, as they call it! I gasped, and then smiled as I considered that this one beautiful display of the works of His hand might have been meant for my eyes only; a silent movie in which the unwritten subtitles were “I care for you. You have not been forgotten, dear. By the way, look what I can do...” I have since learned that shooting stars are not stars at all; they are visible paths of debris particles entering the earth’s atmosphere to become a meteor. Perhaps there is great beauty in seeming intrusions that can only be seen from one side of the heavens. Perhaps Stacy’s visit on the deck that November night appeared as a shooting star before our Maker; a treasure of immense beauty.

*name has been changed