When I was in my late 20s I lived in what I consider the greatest city in the world, to borrow a line from the Broadway musical, Hamilton, and others. Except for me, that city is Boston, hands down. Don’t get me wrong, I love New York, with its energy and skyscrapers and live theater and music offerings, just to name a few attributes. Still, Boston is my favorite city; like NYC it has live theater and music options, skyscrapers and its own unique energy. And, it’s walkable. In other words, I didn’t have to hop on the Subway if I didn’t want to and gave myself enough time to get where I needed to be.

During those years, I cultivated a small group of people who were like family to me. We met through Park Street Church and for at least two years we met weekly for Bible study and food and fellowship. That time in my life was something I hold dear and also deeply miss. It was through that small group that I had some of the best experiences of my 20s and also where I found some incredible friends who tended to my heart and soul and life almost as tenderly as I did myself. Sometimes even more.

The George Robert White Memorial, locally referred to as The Angel

And, yet, when I was going through a challenging time ripe with deep heartbreak while trying to trust God with all the details, both known and unknown to me, all of those friends (save one who met up with me for one day of the three-day-weekend I was at my lowest), were unavailable to me. It was perhaps one of the lowest times in my life and I was beyond lonely and I was hurting. 

I was also angry. Mostly with God. Okay, fully and completely with God.

As I railed against Him and His silence and His stealing away of my closest confidantes in my tiny one-bedroom walkup in the middle of the city, I decided I needed a change of scenery. I also realized I had shrunk God down to the size of that one-bedroom. And so I stepped out onto the busy Boston streets teeming with tourists on that Memorial Day Weekend and headed toward the Public Garden and my favorite angel statue who was perpetually casting her bread upon the waters.

As I made my way the several blocks to the Garden, I felt my anger melting away and my shoulders lighter having lost part of their angry burden. I cast my eyes skyward and as I walked beneath that night sky in the middle of Boston and its skyglow, it wasn’t so much the stars catching my eyes but the glow of the cosmos in the glare of the city’s lights. Still, that glow was more than the city for me in that moment. Whenever I look at the night sky, whether from an East Coast beach or from the mountains of Western North Carolina or from my own current driveway, it is the great cosmos and the Creator I see above me, in large part because of that night I made my way to that favorite angel statue casting her bread upon the water. 

When you need God or a sign from God or a reminder of God, taking in the night sky is the best place to start. For me, I had squeezed God into that small Boston apartment and by so doing stripped Him of His power to handle my hurting heart. Under that cityscape and that skyglow, He came back to me, in all His power and His care and concern for me. 

the crescent moon through our telescope

This treasured moment whispered to me recently as I stood outside with my teenagers as they sought fireflies and we gazed through our telescope at the crescent moon overhead. Nothing makes me feel more secure and equally small than the night sky. And nothing makes me feel more loved and equally secure as my family and these two remarkable young women with whom I can gaze up at the cosmos looking for shooting stars or with whom I can marvel at the twinkling of lightning bugs that dazzle us in the dusk-filling darkness. Truly life with these sweet girls is as delightful as having lived in my favorite city in the world.