The night sky over Flagstaff, Arizona, shines brightly with a myriad of stars. It shimmers as if someone with a palm full of glitter blew a gentle dusting of the shiny stuff over the heavens. Even the city’s street lights know not to interfere with the stars; the city is designated as an International Dark Sky Community. That didn’t happen until 2001, but even when I was a child – we won’t discuss how long ago that was – the night skies were beautifully dark.
I was 9 years old the first time I saw those skies. We had moved to Arizona from Florida in the middle of summer, and none of us were happy. It was HOT in Phoenix, hot like I had never imagined possible, like none of us had imagined. So, every weekend we packed up and hit the trail – in this case the I-17N – to Flagstaff. If you’re unfamiliar with Arizona you may not realize that in addition to dry desert hell, Arizona also provides gorgeous 7,000 – 9,000 feet pine mountains. These cool mountain majesties are where you would drop your pin for Flagstaff, and this is where we hauled our pop-up weekend after weekend.
After the first couple of trips the routine became rote. M, L, and I bickered in the backseat the entire two hour drive while Mom and Dad threatened to turn around, stop the car, etc., until we pulled into the campsite. Finally there, we piled out of the car, and we kids were sent to the campground playground for an optimistic “hour” while our parents set up camp. M,L, and I trudged the gravel path grumbling that we were hungry/tired/etc., spend about 10 minutes there, then headed back to the campsite to whine to our parents who were busily pulling bungee cords, unrolling sleeping bags, doing whatever you do to make camp. (Can you tell I’m not a big camper as an adult?) Of course, this resulted in idle threats of returning to Phoenix immediately realize, and we’d scamper back to the playground for another 10 minutes, thus beginning the cycle anew.
Mostly the trips merge into one blob of memory with individual pieces that occasionally slide into view . Think Viewmaster, like a trip to the Grand Canyon where we all walked halfway down the mule trail and my father had to carry my sister, L, back up, or a trip to the Deer Farm or even stopping at Rock Creek Cafe for pie – really the pie is that good, deserving a Viewmaster frame of its own. I don’t care what flavor – it’s pie. Enough said.
But one night stands on its own like a Platinum Record of all memories. It was cold, so cold that my parents had turned on the trailer’s heater, and we were in flannel pajamas zipped snuggly into our sleeping bags. I shared a bunk with my sister, and she was fast asleep. Silence had blanketed the campground; so, it must’ve been extremely late.
“Rachael,” my dad whispered, “are you awake?”
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“Come here. I want you to see something.” I could see him silhouetted in the moonlight standing by the door.
I crawled out of the sleeping bag, down from the bunk and tiptoed to the door. He smiled down at me as he picked me up – no easy job as I was a hefty child; remember the pie? He wrapped me in a blanket then opened the door and stepped outside.
The chill air felt clean against my face. “Look up,” my father said, and what I saw was magnificent. Stars glimmered everywhere seemingly close enough to touch. I’d never seen anything like it, and though I have seen that same vista again, I’ve never since felt that breathless glory.
I’ve often wondered at that missing breathlessness. That night when I was nine, what my father offered was more than a simple look at the sky. What he was offering was the multitude of stars as a gift. Now the Northern Arizona sky is no less magnificent, but I think that what is missing when I gaze up at those stars is that no one is presenting them to me as a gift. But is that assumption true?
I think most days I take for granted the wonder of the things around me. When I look more carefully – more slowly – what occurs to me is that every beautiful thing is an offering of love, a gift from our Father in Heaven that I simply have forgotten (or neglected) to appreciate. I suspect I’ll encounter that sense of wonder again if I take the time to remember that God created this world for us to enjoy, and relax into that Love. At the very least it gives me a new reason to visit Flagstaff to admire those stars.
The Unexpected Life 