By the Reverand George Yandell, Rector
The gray kitty was on my lap as we sat on the side porch at dusk last week. We watched the shadows creep over the yard. Then a tiny light drifted in front of our perch- a lightning bug. As it flew slowly up and down, I thought, “This is last lightning bug we’ll see until next summer.” Gray kitty couldn’t confirm my assumption, but I sensed he agreed. We’d watched them all thru’ the summer, sometimes 20 – 30 drifting in front of us.
Each evening I’ve been trying to spy Saturn in the early night sky to the west. The trees make it hard. And each morning before dawn I’ve been out to view Jupiter riding high above, the Pleiades and Orion framed against Jupiter’s path. Venus is so bright in the eastern sky she shines through the leaves on the oak trees. Haven’t been able to find Mercury yet- the ‘blue wall’ of Mt. Oglethorpe obscures its rising against the brightening dawn.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting more sentimental as I age past 70, but I am driven to feel and see all I can of nature’s glory. I often hear Amos’ words in my head when I’m stargazing: “The One who made the Pleiades and Orion and turns the deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea, and pours them out onto the surface of the earth, the LORD is his name.” (Chapter 5, verse 8.) Amos must have felt small in the face of his musings under the star-lit sky like I do.
Those of us who live out here in the mountains are blessed, aren’t we? And so are our creature companions.