Sky High

I took my little dog, Abby, outside the other night, and while she was taking care of business, I looked up at the stars I could see between my house and the house next door. Orion was overhead. Belt, sword, hands high, feet spread. And at his heels was his big dog, Canis Major, who looks more like a headless dog to me, but the star charts show he actually has a head. I just can't see it. Then again, I'm not sure if Orion has a head either. He and his dog may be a good match that way.

When Abby was finished, she didn't look up at the sky. She didn't admire the stars. She just looked around and sniffed the air to see if there was a cat nearby. There wasn't, so she headed for the door.

There are people who say that humans are just like any other animal. In fact, Dennis Prager discusses that question today in his WorldNetDaily column. But animals don't admire things or appreciate beauty or look in wonder. Humans do. I do.

One night last week, as I was looking up at the sky, Sirius (the star at Canis Major's shoulder) was changing colors as it twinkled. It was white most of the time, but sometimes it was blue, sometimes red, sometimes yellow. I stood watching it for a long time, just to make sure I wasn't imagining it, but also for the thrill of watching something that surprising. Later I called my astrophysics-major friend and asked her if Sirius changes colors, and she said no, it was probably some sort of atmospheric condition giving that impression. And I think she's right, because Sirius has stayed white since then.

Psalm 19:1 says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." And I can't help but agree. It's both humbling and thrilling to think that God set the stars spinning in the sky for our benefit. He gave us the gift of wonder, the gift of feeling like a small piece of such a vast universe, the gift of his glory.

He certainly didn't do it for the dogs.