A sleepless night. Thoughts invade, sore muscles rebel, and I’m cold. Time to relocate. I quietly grab pillow and blankets and head downstairs to the couch, hoping a change of venue will help.

I sit for a while, looking out the window.  The wind ruffles leafless branches creating a layer of graceful movement beneath the clouds.  The stars shine particularly bright doused as they are with moonlight.

A memory taps me on the shoulder. The stars. My brother, when four years old, called them “tars.” He became the star of family folklore while toasting marshmallows over a campfire one night. With a clear voice, he announced, “The parks look like the tars up in the ky.”

We found the missing letters cute and funny, and they were. But now I recognize the profound observation of a sensitive four-year-old. God brought the stars down to earth for him that night for a closer look. The sparks looked like the stars up in the sky.  How beautiful and wise and straightforward.

It reminds me to listen carefully and take my time, from one heart to another.