megdanielle

Last night in Grand Rapids, Michigan, when the cloud coverage cleared and the stars peeked hello, the aurora borealis danced slowly across the sky in choreographed colors.

I was on my way to bed when my husband knocked on the door to whisper an invitation. “Come outside,” he implored.

It’s a nightly ask from a man who loves to be bathed in campfire smoke to a woman whose lungs tighten and burn at the thought. I had already turned him down once.

But he knew.

We hadn’t been getting along all day, for lots of reasons, both present and past. Offenses built up over time. Our marriage the last item on the list of care when deadlines loomed and child activities burgeoned.

But he knew.

He knew that despite discord and nighttime routines, I wouldn’t want to miss the symphony of color, the first time in my 37 years of life that the opportunity presented itself to me.

So he knocked.

I walked outside, blinded by the transition from artificial light to evening darkness. My eyes adjusted to moving reds and greens and purples. Our necks craned. For once, the use of a phone enhanced rather than detracted from the moment, creating long exposure glimpses of a natural wonder.

I woke up this morning, on my 37th birthday, feeling grateful for natural wonders. For Northern Lights. For marriage. For rare beauty and reflection. For Instagram posts of shared experiences among friends. For family.

I’m thankful for a beautiful start to this next year of life. For God’s constant reminders of love and grace, both small and extraordinary.