August Moon

When I opened my eyes in the pre-dawn stillness this morning, I had the Arkle-esque thought, “What do You have for me today?” Then I noticed the faint light sifting in through the curtains. When I went to the front door, I saw the full moon exactly at the end of our driveway, a perfect sight-picture as if in a scope, centered between trees on either side and between heaven and earth above and below. My wife and I crept down the driveway to look at it and try to take photos of it, but such photos are always disappointing. Cellphones can never capture majesty.

The Indians, who once lived and hunted the land on which I sleep and arise each day, reportedly called the August lunar event a full sturgeon moon. Though I know the story of why the red men called the August moon by such a name, I dislike the story because it is too localized, too insider. I do not have a name for the moon, but I am aware of its pull, especially when filtered through warm fog. The scene this morning was witchy, eerie, and the child version of me would have liked it very much.

Little weather milestones tell my spirit that the world is once again changing. The sun has what Emily Dickenson called “that certain slant of light,” and the great star seems to have lost a bit of his power, even though it is very hot here these days. It feels different on the skin; less weighty, less hammerlike. The crickets are more vocal, and the screech owl, too. Leaves are slowly beginning to curl and turn. The hummingbirds are intense and serious in their perpetual feeding and flying back-and-forths to their thimble-sized nests. My old dog does what she does every year at this time, spending long periods outside with her snout in the air, eyes, half closed, as if in communion with some unseen current of activity or air or…something.

What does God have for me today? Before I go to bed tonight, perhaps I will remember to think back over the day, to recollect myself, to think on the mistakes and the observations and the ways in which I wish I could re-do or re-state some things. Whatever my pre-slumber musings may turn out to be, it is pleasant to sit here right now, before I leave my home for the day, and to know that He is not gazing at me with narrowed eyes, waiting for me to make a mistake so He can have an excuse to be angry with me. His fingers are not dangling me over an enormous pit of glowing coals, no matter what Jonathan Edwards and his spiritual children say. He is watching me, and I am talking to him in the half-whispers that probably lead my neighbors and coworkers to whisper that S.K. really seems to be losing it.  He is not out to get me, and He is not going to change the rules on me. He watches me with delight and concern and the most intense interest. This is what fathers do. And in this little corner of His creation, it all takes place beneath that enormous, fog-shrouded moon.

~ S.K. Orr