Heaven and Nature Sing

Stars in My Eyes

I have always been deeply enchanted by the universe. The vastness, the unknown, the deep dark - it has intrigued me since I was old enough to care about something bigger than myself. In the fifth grade I almost ruined Christmas when I snooped around and found a telescope hiding in the closet with my name on it (sorry mom and dad). In sixth grade I watched in awe as meteors showered the sky above our Tennessee home. In seventh I drifted off every night while staring at my poster of the moon. And in the eighth grade I realized I probably didn't have what it takes to be an astronaut when algebra started getting like, really hard (unrelated, I became dolphin-obsessed and decided to pursue marine biology like every other teen girl in the early 2000s. That didn't pan out either).

While I may not be orbiting the earth these days, I am living at 61° North; and I've exchanged my telescope for a wide-angle lens. Living in Alaska has given me a unique window into the cosmos - the Aurora Borealis. I'll spare you all the space-y things I've been learning while chasing the lights (think magnetospheres and solar wind) and get straight to the point - the northern lights are the greatest thing my eyes have ever been blessed enough to see.

A Symphony of Light

It is true that sometimes you have to squint your eyes, turn your head to the side, and use your imagination a little to see them. Many times a camera will pick up colors or movement that isn't really visible to the naked eye - but on those nights, even just knowing they are out there fills me with wonder. Sometimes we're graced with a pale green glow behind the trees, and other nights it looks as if God himself painted brushstrokes across the sky. Of course there are many nights that Lady A doesn't make an appearance at all (rude). There is a bit of an art to finding them - we need good space weather and good earth weather and a dark, clear-ish night. I also have a sort of unwritten agreement with a friend that we'll text each other any time we see the lights out, because friends don't let friends miss out on the aurora (I'm looking at you, Danielle). And sure, I've heard a few Negative Nancys say "they aren't that impressive" or "you can't really see them anyways."

But boy are they missing out. I guess they haven't seen what I've seen.

One cold and cloudy night in October, Shep and I jumped in the car and drove until we saw stars shining through an opening in the clouds. Usually, the lights wait to appear until it's wildly inconvenient, and given that Cam is more of a go-to-bed-early type, he isn't all that into the chase. So, he stayed home, and the two of us went hunting. But no sooner than we had parked on the side of a steep mountain road did the sky burst open with color. Swirling bands of green, purple, and pink danced above us. I couldn't set my tripod up fast enough as my hands were so shaky with excitement. We stood there, spellbound and small beneath vast curtains of color. Separated by an expansive valley, we looked out across to where Cameron was and realized he was missing this, and we were missing him. Of course we called him to say "GET OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW," and then stood on our opposite mountains and stared into the same abyss, with only the dancing lights to bridge the distance.

On New Year's Eve we ran out in our jammies at midnight to see the brightest green auroral ribbon swaying above the house. I swear it looked so close you could almost reach up and pluck it from the sky. A couple of cars drove by, seemingly unaware of the show taking place just above them, and we speculated whether or not these lights were reserved just for us. It was a mere 4 or 5 degrees outside, and yet watching this I forgot that I wasn't even wearing socks (eventually the night chill did breach my thin, pink Target pajama pants and I could no longer feel my thighs). After throwing on a few more layers (and yet somehow, still no socks), we returned to the street just in time to see the vibrant green band explode with movement. Within seconds, the heavens unraveled and we found ourselves standing directly beneath the corona, an electrifying convergence of colorful light that radiates in every direction. It's like a chaotic, brilliant vortex that pulls everything - including your gaze - into its eerie, beautiful center. And it feels almost terrifying - a mix of exhilaration and deep reverence surged through us. Shep and I pulled each other close. Everything was illuminated, the snow on the street even glowing green.

Fit for a King

"Mom, this is the coolest thing I've ever seen in my whole life! Thank you Jesus, thank you!"

At 10 years old, I may have been obsessed with space, but I couldn't have dreamt up the cosmic magic that exists within the aurora. Even two years ago I wouldn't have imagined the experiences I would go on to share with my family here under the Alaskan sky. But Shepherd - this boy is living, thinking, feeling. I can see forming in him a deep appreciation for the immense beauty of the world, which he knows to be a reflection of the One who made it all. Last time the lights were out, I turned around to find him standing beneath a swirling green sky, both hands lifted in praise to the Lord. My Mama heart could've burst right there on the spot.

This is because to witness the aurora is to lose yourself in the beauty of creation. Waves of light testify to the scriptures which tell us "the heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands."

In these moments it feels almost as though time stands still - all creation caught up in a sacred symphony, a celestial hymn of praise to its Creator, a show fit for a King.

This, this, is when heaven and nature sings.

"Praise him, sun and moon, praise him, all you shining stars! Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens! Let them praise the name of the Lord! For he commanded and they were created."

-Psalms 148:3-6