One of my closest friends brought some pain meds for me, since I had asked her to. I came straight from babysitting and had a terrible headache from the dentist appointment I had earlier (which I survived, if you were curious—and my teeth have been decavitized…yes, I just made that word up on the spot).
The movie, Sherlock Holmes, was highly enjoyable and I found myself captivated by the plot. My favorite parts were probably the comic relief, because that’s simply the kind of mood I’m in. I can stand the tension, but I would much rather laugh.
After the movie was over the three of us split up to go home, one on her own and the other with me. I had been exceedingly cold before entering the theatre but I was suddenly very content with the temperature of the frigid air and didn’t mind taking my time to get to the car. (My poor friend was freezing so I quickly turned the heat on for her.)
On the drive home we discussed friendships and how they’ve changed since we left high school, and how we must decide whom we really want to stay in touch with. It’s a decision that’s been more prominent since we've been home and something that has been on my mind lately.
After I dropped her off, and waited to make sure she was safely inside, I drove the 10 seconds down the street to my own house and parked in the same place I have for 2 years. What Hurts the Most by the Rascal Flatts was playing on the radio and I sat in the car and sang along with it. It's a song that has nothing to do with my life at the moment—I was surprised to find that I still knew all of the lyrics even though I probably hadn’t heard the song all the way through since sophomore year of high school.
When it ended I turned the radio off, gathered my belongings, and stepped out into the winter air.
All was silent.
I began to walk across the snow but the crunching noise under my boots disturbed the soundless night.
So I stopped and took my time to breathe and take in my surroundings.
I wasn’t cold. Not in the least. I watched as I blew a cloud of my breath into the air—it hovered before me, floated, then dispersed.
I looked up at the cloudless night (something I’m still amazed by after spending a few month in Seattle). It was breathtaking and beautiful. I sought out the constellation Orion, and my eyes settled on the middle star.
Mine. I inwardly claimed it in 6th grade.
It remains constant and I love searching it out. I love the summer, because it’s warm. But I love the winter because my star is in the sky. I’ve begun to notice the subtle tipping of the earth after all these years of looking for it.
So there I was, standing in the freezing cold, looking at the sky, breathing… and not wanting to move a muscle.
I felt as if I could lie down and sleep right there. (However, my inner reasoning did manage to tell me that idea was anything but wise.)
For minutes, it was just me between the pavement and the stars. No one else existed. At one in the morning I doubt many other people were awake in my neighborhood.
In music library in my head began to sing how great is our God, sing with me how great is our God, and all will see how great, how great, is our God.
It’s the moments like that when I feel closest to Him. It’s when I take the time to be still and to soak his creation in.
When I’m there I never want to leave.