It had been a long, full day. Dinner had been served, the dishwasher was stacked, the last pans were soaking in the sink, and I decided to take a quick walk.
There’s nothing like claiming those last bits of daylight for your very own.
As I walked, I thought about the day. Some parts went well. Some parts I would have liked to undo and try again.
The sky was getting dimmer, and I realized I needed to head home. As I turned the corner to start down the hill toward our house, though, something caught my eye.
A car was stopped by the curb, and its headlights were on. And dancing in the headlights—as darkness fell on the neighborhood—was a group of moths.
It was spectacular. It was magical. The moths were glowing white in the headlights, flying through the air, weaving around and between one another in a rapid dance. The scene reminded me a little of snowflakes falling in front of headlights, and yet it was also quite different. The moths—which together are apparently called an eclipse or a whisper—were flying in all directions, circling and weaving in a kind of frenzy, illuminated and excited by the light.
Ordinary headlights. Ordinary moths. An ordinary evening. But together they formed an extraordinary moment of wonder. As I watched, the car turned off its lights, the moths disappeared, and it was over.
It all happened so quickly that I didn’t even have a chance to try to take a picture. But I can still see it in my mind—the delicate beauty of the lit moths, moving individually and together as night arrived. If I had been any faster or slower in taking my walk, I would have missed it entirely. Yet I was there—in that very instant, to take it all in.
I was just lucky to be at that place at that time.
Time. I look at our children and can’t believe how much they’ve grown in the four months since we started quarantine. I think of the memories they’re missing out on making with their relatives and friends. I imagine the summer we thought we would enjoy, with a beach vacation and spontaneous day-trip adventures. Then I look at the summer we have, with so much family time at home. We’re creating simple but extraordinary memories together.
As we wait for an end to the pandemic, it can be easy to try to wish this time away. And I think we should envision that time when we can easily be with the people we love, do the things we long to do, and not have to worry about a virus.
But I try to remind myself that there is a gift—and a purpose—to this time, too. God has some role for each of us in this moment in history—difficult though it may be—and He wants us to enjoy this time, too.
Maybe the memories we make are simpler—like seeing a deer run through the yard or watching the moths dancing in the headlights of a car. But they’re also wondrous in their own ways. I hope today brings a moment when you will feel you are right where you need to be—right where God placed you.
Copyright © 2020 Catholic Review Media
