The moon has risen over this patch of earth since the beginning of time. Chad and I have called this place “home” for nearly a decade. I’ve wandered around the sun almost thirty-one times. That’s how long it took me to realize that I could slip out onto my front porch steps at eleven o’clock on a June night and have a front row seat to a full moonrise. (Isn’t moonrise just the nicest word?)

Our house is nestled in so tightly against the mountain and I never realized how much that effected when the moon arrives overhead. Since many residents in this county can see the moon several hours before us, that moment on the front porch felt like a private concert that God put on just for me. I often notice that the moon is up if we come home late at night, but I never stilled and waited to watch the moon come up. To notice all its stages from “growing bright” to “shiny speck” to “there it comes” to “ah, there it is.”

When I finally pull away and come inside, I feel as if my heart has absorbed a bit of moonlight. It soothes the soul ache in ways that sunshine never has. I’m filled to the brim with the knowing that while all is not right with the world today, all will be right someday. My God, who has held the moon in place for millennium, is holding me too.

I mark the date of the next full moon in my planner. I don’t want to miss the glory right in front of me. I long to remember how delightfully small my place in this world is. Watching the moonrise is a good way to do both.

(Last year, my sister and I tried to take a “holding the moon photo.” I fear we didn’t have the right equipment or the necessary skills. It resulted in side splitting laughter, an underwhelming photo, and one of my favorite memories.)

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