In the last two weeks, I’ve stared at the sky more than I have since I was a kid.
Unsurprisingly, I read a lot of books as a kid. Nancy Drew and Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and the Saddle Club. We lived outside of city limits, so the first time I visited the local library I was in elementary school. I remember the wonder I felt as I walked among the stacks of dusty books—some of which probably hadn’t been disturbed in years.
I loved the feeling of being swept away by a story. I was a time traveler, being transported to faraway times and places—sailing on pirate ships, riding horses bareback through grassy meadows, wandering through the woods of Narnia. I don’t think there’s anything quite like the magic of reading as a child.
One of my favorite places to read was outside. I remember laying in the grass in our front yard for hours, lost in books. Between chapters, I would pause and look up—a radiant blue sky and the fluffiest clouds drifting lazily by. I’d stare and stare, mystified by how the sky could possibly be so wide and feel so all-encompassing yet so far away. It’s hard for me to put to words what I feel—what I’ve always felt—when I look up at the sky. I look up, and I feel. That’s all I know.
Since those days of reading outside, I’ve spent far more time with ceilings over my head than clouds. Usually, they were school buildings. My elementary school, high school, and finally, college. There’s been a lot less laying in the grass than I’d like—something I’d like to be different for my kids someday.
But in the last few weeks, that has changed. The Midwest summer has finally emerged once more, and this time I have an eight-month-old. He loves to be outside more than almost anything, and it’s my go-to move anytime he’s even remotely upset. We’re averaging about three hours a day outside right now, a number I’d like to increase as he gets older.
But since he’s still so young, there’s not much to do once we’re outside. He watches the birds and the cars as they drive by. He picks the grass, attempts to eat it, and digs his tiny fingernails in the dirt. To him, it is all enthralling. For me, I get a little bored. Usually, I end up laying down and looking up.
And despite being 27, despite having my baby right next to me, despite now being the “owner” of the grass I’m laying in, I’m always immediately nine-years-old again. That feeling rushes over me as I look to the heavens. I am small and full of wonder and mystery and magic. Anything is possible and the world is so big and hopeful and the things I’m worried about suddenly seem so insignificant in comparison to the vastness of blue above me.
I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone else if they get that feeling, too, when they look up, so maybe it’s just me, but I have a feeling it’s not. Why else would humans scale mountains and paint sunsets and ride in hot air balloons? It is that feeling of wonder, of vastness that drives us, connects us to creation and the Creator himself.
I think it is innate, this connection to the sky, and I think it was intentionally placed in us by God as a part of what it means to be made in his image. As Creator, our God loves beautiful things, so it is no surprise that his image bearers—his idols—would be so enamored with beautiful things, too.
It’s not simply the beauty that stops me in my tracks, though. It is the scope of the sky. Even the view from my tiny backyard in town leaves me with a sense that I am so very small and God is so unbelievably big. But not in a way that frightens me. Rather, in a way that comforts me and makes me feel safe. When I look up at the clouds, I am reminded that if my God can take care of all this, surely he can and will take care of me, too.
I think the psalmists would relate to this experience I’m trying so hard to describe, for they put it far better than I ever could:
“I lift my eyes toward the mountains.
Where will my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not allow your foot to slip;
your Protector will not slumber.
Indeed, the Protector of Israel
does not slumber or sleep.”
Psalm 121:1-4
I think there is a spiritual significance to looking up. It humbles us, centers us, grounds us in the truth of what we know:
“To whom will you compare me,
or who is my equal?” asks the Holy One.
Look up and see!
Who created these?
He brings out the stars by number;
he calls all of them by name.
Because of his great power and strength,
not one of them is missing.”
Isaiah 40:25-26
We look up, and we know that it is all his, including us.
There is so much looking down in our lives. All day, I look down at my computer as I work. And then when I’m done working, I look down at my phone, for no reason at all other than it’s there. How many hours do I spend looking down in a day? I don’t want to know.
Looking down makes us the largest thing we see. It makes ourselves the center of our perception, and it skews everything else in relation to us.
Looking up reveals what is real and true—that we are not the biggest, we are not the center of it all. The sky shows me that I am small, but it also tells me that I belong to something, that I am cared for, that I am a creation, not a robot.
I belong to a Creator who loves to make beautiful things. So when the fear and anxiety come chasing after me once more, I can look up, remember, and know.