Days on the ranch started early.  First you put on your britches, then you went to the barn to feed up.  Then you ate breakfast.  Back then, my parents didn’t see the need for a security lamp.  It didn’t matter how dark it was, the barn hadn’t moved in a hundred years.  You were expected to navigate your way in the darkness before the dawn.  I would start the hundred-yard journey, stepping into the darkness, letting the shadows and moonlight take me down the path.

On the clear pre-dawn mornings, I remember the stars.  We were far from the light clutter of town, so you could see the light dust of the Milky Way.  The Little Dipper was open to receive and the Big Dipper was upside down.  The faint North Star, Polaris, stood as always to say, “The house is north, the barn is south.”

Some mornings I would stop, and look, and be awed.  Words can’t describe what I felt.  It was an odd combination of feeling small, of being amazed, and of worshiping the God who put it all in place and keeps it spinning.

There were other moments when the stars spoke to me: riding in the back of truck across the Mexican desert, hundreds of miles from any man-made lights.  I remember feeling very small.  I was a foreigner in a strange land.   If something happened to the truck and our driver, I would have only the stars to guide me home.  Somehow it was comforting to know that the God who knows the name of every star, knew where I was.  He would take care of me, just as he kept all the details of those stars in his mind.    

There was another ride in the back of pickup, on a different continent, in a different hemisphere.  We were driving through the Kalahari Desert on a moonless night.  The constellations were strange to me, in the wrong places.  A strange thought crossed my mind: I was probably the only person in the whole country of Botswana that had a Ph.D. in the Old Testament.  That thought did not make me feel superior.  I remember feeling humbled.  God made me a unique soul, treasured by him.  Just as God made each star unique, I was unique out of the billions of people on the planet. 

Right now, the first star I see in the evening isn’t even a star; it’s a planet, Venus, rising in the early evening sky.  Sometimes I wonder if God made all the planets in our solar system just to convey to us that earth is special and needs our care.

The stars still preach sermons to me:  Life doesn’t just happen.  There is a Creator.  He has made a beautiful creation.  Creation is a testimony to His love, His care, and His generosity.  The Creator shares his creation with me.  Whatever problems I have can be solved by this gracious Creator.

In the Bible a man named Abraham was given a promise:  he and his wife would have a child.  He waited.  No baby.  Years passed.  One day God came and spoke to Abraham: “The promise is still in effect.  I will bless you.” 

Abraham replied, “What good will that do me?  When I die, one of the hired men will get it all.”

You can understand Abraham’s response.  Waiting is hard.  Believing while you wait is harder.

So, God invites Abraham to step outside.  Not to fight.  But to look up.  To see the stars.  What do you think God was trying to say?  God told Abraham, “Look at the stars.  As they are, so your descendants will be.” I think God was telling Abraham, “If I can do that, I can certainly make your descendants more numerous than the stars.

Wait for a cloudless night.  Drive out of town, past the streetlights.  Pull over, turn off your car lights.  Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.  Look at the stars.  Think about what God is saying to you.  Maybe He is saying, “If I can do this, what do you think I can do for you?”