On Walking at Night

I took a walk this evening.  It was clear and cool, and I could see stars peeking through the overhanging trees.  The air had just enough of a nip to whisper that winter is slowly approaching, and it reminded me of fall and winter night walks I used to take with my family when I was very small.

I din't know why I remember it so vividly.  I sat in the red wagon, bundled up so that only the tip of my nose got chilled.  There was no hurry to get anywhere.  No one said anything, and we would occasionally stop just to stare at the stars.  What stuck with me the most, however, wasn't the walking or the star-staring.  I remember just drinking in the bigness and the deepness and the darkness and the stillness that came with the cold nights and the distant moon.

Some day, years from now, I want to take my children on those walks.  I want them to feel the significance of knowing that the God that created this big, deep, dark, still, crisp world also created the hearts of those that behold it with quiet fascination.  In the mean time, I will continue to walk by myself so as to never lose the perspective of a child marveling at the creation of a loving God.