Living outside of Seattle, Washington, with a latitude of 47°39’00.00”, you’d think I’d have better opportunities to see incredible things in the sky—a full moon, constellations, and maybe even the northern lights. Sometimes that’s been true.

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I remember a cold December night in 2020, when my husband and I drove to the nearby golf course, which sits atop a hill, so that we could catch a glimpse of the North Star. That was pretty incredible to imagine this celestial body being the same thing the wise men in the Bible followed to find the Holy Family. During moments like that, I find myself wishing I could share the view with my parents, who’ve long since passed away.

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But oftentimes in my day-to-day life, I don’t think much about what’s above me. And unless we’re camping away from the brightly-lit city or hosting a bonfire outside our home, I’m honestly not paying attention to what’s above me in the night sky.

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When was the last time I slowed down and looked up to marvel at the twinkling stars overhead?

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I remember on Mother’s Day weekend last year, my family and I sprawled out in our driveway to look up and wait for the sky to become dark and change colors as the incredible aurora borealis made its striking appearance. By adjusting the settings on our phones and steadying them on the parked cars in our driveway, we were able to capture mystical figures in pink, gold, and green in the sky. One of my photos looked like an angel blowing a trumpet. Could it be someone I know? I wondered. Another looked like watercolor streaks raining from the sky. And some of my photos displayed distant pinpricks of white—the stars so far away that our eyes couldn’t see them without the help of the camera.

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Last August, I had the pleasure of attending a women’s retreat in Longbranch, Washington. It was a great pleasure to gather with other women to explore the sandy beaches, experience forest bathing, and participate in guided meditation. One evening, a group of us carried blankets and flashlights out of the campground and into a large open field. We put on our sweatshirts and spread our blankets to lie flat on our backs beneath the deep blue summer sky in hopes of spotting the annual Perseid meteor shower overhead.

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It had been a long time since I’d lain underneath a sky dark enough to see anything magical. But that night I did see a couple of falling stars, or maybe it was part of the meteor shower. Who knows?

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At the start of summer this year, the local news reported that we’d be able to see another aurora borealis just by looking up after 10 p.m. My daughter and I wandered out onto the pavement past our bedtime and set up our cellphones in hopes of catching a colorful glimpse of the multicolored sky, but it was not to be.

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We turned off all of our outside lights, but even so, the sky wasn’t dark enough to observe any color variations. I snapped one decent picture of the Big Dipper—white stars against the black sky. It’s not that they weren’t pretty; it’s just that I was hoping for more. Long after we’d gone inside, throughout the night, I continued to peek out my bedroom window to catch a glimpse of pink, gold, or green. But on that night, there were no displays of color. So disappointing!

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Whenever I look up, I try to find the star with the most sparkle next to the Big Dipper and imagine that it’s sending me a message from a loved one. Perhaps my departed parents or grandparents are looking down at the very same moment when I’m looking up, and we’re connecting for that single, special moment in time. Could that pulse of light be meant for me?

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I’ll never know for sure. But the next time I look up, I’ll search for the star with the brightest pulse—and listen closely. Maybe, just maybe, it’s saying ‘I love you.’ Maybe that sparkle is meant just for me.