Every year on May 4th, the world turns its eyes to the stars, whispering a familiar blessing. For many, it’s a day for movie marathons and trivia. But for me, as I look up at Our Night Sky, it’s a day that marks the passage of time, a way to measure the seasons of my life through the lens of a camera and the lives of my three sons.

A Long Time Ago...

Looking back at these photos, I see more than just costumes and plastic lightsabers. I see a time when my backyard was the forest moon of Endor and a simple sunset was a binary star system on Tatooine.

Today, things look a little different. My sons have grown into young men. The lightsabers have been moved to storage, and the capes have been traded for “cooler” pursuits. If I asked them to suit up for a photo today, I’d likely get a polite eye-roll or a “Maybe later, Dad.”

They are in a new season, one of independence and finding their own way in the galaxy. And as hard as it is for a father to let go of the “director” role, I realize this is the natural order of things.

“Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.” — Yoda

There is a deep spirituality in the transition of parenthood. Just as we look to the night sky and marvel at the vastness of the universe, I look at my sons and marvel at the plan laid out for them.

My faith tells me that while I may no longer be the one guiding their every step or setting up their “scenes,” they are never truly alone. The same Creator who hung the stars provides a light for their path. The “Force” we played at as children is, in reality, a much deeper connection to purpose, love, and the divine.

So, this May 4th, I won’t be sad that they’ve outgrown the costumes.

I’ll look at the stars tonight and send up a prayer for them, that they keep their sense of wonder, that they face their own “Empires” with courage, and that they always remember the way home.

Happy Star Wars Day to all the fathers, sons, and dreamers out there.

Until next time! Keep looking up.

-g

For a long time, Our Night Sky has been a sanctuary where we look up at the heavens to find healing, reflection, and a deeper connection to the Creator. We’ve gazed at distant galaxies, tracked the dance of the planets, and found peace in the silent majesty of the stars.

But as any stargazer knows, the heavens and the Word go hand in hand. While the “heavens declare the glory of God,” it is His Word that illuminates our path here on earth.

Today, I am so excited to share a brand-new space where those two worlds meet: Our Night Sky - Daily Devotionals, which can be accessed using this link or from the top menu under Daily Word. https://scripture.ournightsky.us.

Why a Scripture Section?

My journey with photography and the night sky has always been rooted in my faith. Whether I’m capturing the glow of a nebula or the sharp light of a crescent moon, I often feel there must be a verse echoing for this. This new section is designed to be a dedicated digital companion for your spiritual journey.

What You’ll Find There

The new Scripture portal is more than just a list of verses; it’s a tool for integration and reflection.

• Daily Grounding: Just as we look up each night to see what’s visible in the sky, this section offers a way to see what God is saying to your spirit today.

• A Beautiful Interface: Designed with the same aesthetic of wonder that defines our main site, it’s a peaceful, distraction-free environment for your daily devotions.

• Deep Connection: I’ve curated this space to help you bridge the gap between the majesty of the cosmos and the intimacy of God’s promises.

Keep Looking Up (and In)

In a world that can often feel dark or overwhelming, we need every source of light we can find. I hope this new section becomes a place where you can catch your breath, find encouragement for your “road of recovery,” and be reminded that the One who calls every star by name also knows exactly where you are today.

I invite you to head over to scripture.ournightsky.us, bookmark it, and let it be a part of your daily rhythm. These same devotionals are the ones inside the Our Night Sky app available on the Apple App Store.

As always, keep looking up!

— Greg

OurNightSky.Us

This morning, I stepped outside with one simple goal: to capture Comet C/2025 PanSTARRS as it climbed above the Middle Georgia horizon. I wasn’t expecting anything more than the quiet joy of chasing a comet, one of those icy wanderers that always feels like a personal gift from God.

But God had other plans.

As I was framing my shot, a bright streak cut across the sky, clean, sharp, unmistakably intentional. It was SpaceX’s Falcon 9 rocket rising from Cape Canaveral, carrying the Starlink 10‑24 mission, which included the 1,000th Starlink satellite launched in 2026. Liftoff happened at 5:33 a.m. EDT, and the rocket climbed on a northeasterly trajectory, which is exactly why it became visible from where I stood in Middle Georgia.

I didn’t plan this. I didn’t track the launch schedule. I wasn’t waiting for a rocket.
I was waiting for a comet.
And yet, God lined up both.

The Falcon 9 booster flying this mission, tail number B1080, was on its 26th flight, having supported missions like Axiom 2, Axiom 3, and CRS‑30. Just over eight minutes after liftoff, it touched down on the drone ship, its 157th landing on that vessel.

But none of that was on my mind in the moment.
All I saw was light, three different messengers crossing the same sky.

A comet from the deep reaches of the solar system.
A rocket built by human hands, carrying satellites into orbit.
A moon, silently rising, watching it all unfold.
All three appeared before me at the same time, in the same frame, without any planning on my part.

And that’s when it hit me: God’s timing is never random. It’s precise. It’s purposeful. And sometimes, it’s beautifully surprising.

I’ve learned that when we walk in obedience, when we keep showing up, keep trusting, keep stepping outside into the dark even when we’re tired, God has a way of meeting us there. Not always with fireworks. Not always with spectacle. But often with reminders that He sees us, He knows us, and He delights in giving good gifts to His children.

This morning, that gift was a comet, a moon, and a rocket sharing the same sky.
A moment I couldn’t have orchestrated if I tried. A moment that whispered, “Keep looking up. I’m still here. I’m still working. And I still love surprising you.”

So I’ll keep stepping outside. I’ll keep chasing comets. I’ll keep trusting His timing, because today reminded me that when heaven lines up, it’s always worth being there to see it.

So I say it again, with proof, keep looking up!

-g

Tonight, as the Artemis II crew arcs homeward, falling back through the atmosphere in a blaze of fire and precision, I can’t help but feel the weight of it. Not just the history, not just the engineering, but the heart of it. Humanity went out a little farther again. We touched the edge of the heavens, and now four explorers are coming home.

And I keep thinking: God made us for this.

He didn’t place us in a tiny, closed-off world. He set us in a universe so vast it almost feels unreasonable, galaxies stacked upon galaxies, mysteries layered like pages in a book we haven’t finished learning to read. And then He gave us curiosity. Imagination. The ache to see what’s beyond the next horizon.

That’s not an accident. That’s design.

When I watch missions like Artemis II, I see more than astronauts. I see the echo of something ancient, God’s first invitation to humanity: “Go. Explore. Name. Steward. Discover.” We were never meant to stay still. We were meant to grow into the world He made, step by step, star by star.

And yet, there’s something deeply grounding about the return. After all the distance, all the silence of space, all the breathtaking views of Earth hanging like a jewel in the dark… they come home. Back to gravity. Back to soil and sky and family. Back to the place God planted us first.

There’s a message in that rhythm: go out, come home, go out again.
It mirrors our own lives more than we realize.

We explore new seasons, new challenges, new callings. We push into the unknown, sometimes boldly, sometimes trembling. And when we feel lost or overwhelmed, God draws us back, back to Himself, back to trust, back to the steady ground of His faithfulness.

The moon missions remind me that faith isn’t static. It’s a journey outward and a journey inward. It’s daring to step into the vastness God created, and then remembering that no matter how far we travel, His presence is the gravity that brings us safely home.

So tonight, as Artemis II streaks across the sky and splashes down into the ocean, I’m grateful. Grateful for explorers. Grateful for wonder. Grateful for a God who built a universe big enough to stretch us and a love strong enough to steady us.

Because every time humanity returns from the heavens, we bring back more than data.
We bring back perspective.
We bring back humility.
We bring back awe.

And maybe that’s the real mission, learning to see God’s fingerprints in the stars, and then learning to trust Him with the path beneath our feet.

Until next time! Keep Looking up!

-g

For months, I watched C/2026 A1 (MAPS) trace its silent path across the heavens. It was a faithful companion in our viewfinders, a fragile traveler from the deep cold, venturing toward the fire of our sun. But the very light that gave it its brilliant tail and visible life ultimately claimed it. As the comet disintegrated, leaving only a ghostly trail of dust where a nucleus once soared, it provided more than just a data point for astronomers. It offered a profound mirror for our own lives.

(The video above shows Comet c/2026 A1 MAPS) coming into view from the bottom left and being absorbed by the sun.)

There is a specific kind of heartache in watching a comet fade. I can invest my late nights and early mornings in these objects, tracking them through the stars as if they were old friends. When they break apart, it feels like an unfinished story.

Yet, in the grand design of the cosmos, nothing is ever truly “unfinished.” The journey of C/2026 A1 was exactly as long as it was meant to be. Like our own lives, a comet’s value isn’t measured by how long it lasts, but by the light it sheds while it is here. We often fear the “breakup” moments in our own journeys, the loss of a job, the end of a season, or the fading of a dream, forgetting that the most intense light is often emitted right before a major transformation (ask me how I know this).

In the quiet of a dark sky site, it becomes easier to see that death is rarely an ending; it is a transition. As the heat of the sun overwhelmed the comet’s icy core, it didn’t simply vanish into nothingness. It was liberated.

The ice, dust, and ancient gases that were locked away for billions of years have now been seeded back into the solar system. This “death” is a rebirth of form. The remnants of C/2026 A1 will eventually become part of the zodiacal light or perhaps contribute to a future meteor shower, burning bright once more as they enter an atmosphere.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” John 12:24

This ancient truth rings true even in the vacuum of space. For us to experience a “fresh start,” something old must often pass away. We cannot hold onto the comfort of the frozen past if we wish to shine in the light of the present.

Watching the demise of Comet MAPS reminded me to hold my plans with open hands. I am a traveler, much like that comet, guided by forces far greater than myself. When our path takes an unexpected turn, when we feel ourselves breaking under the pressure of life’s “solar winds”, we can find peace in knowing that the Creator of the stars is the Master of the Rebirth. The timing of this comet’s bright final approach to the sun is so fitting for the season we are in, which is today, Easter Sunday, a resurrection, a miracle, a rebirth.

Every ending in our lives is an opportunity for a God-given reset. It is a chance to shed the layers that no longer serve us and to allow our essence to be scattered into new, beautiful purposes.

C/2026 A1 (MAPS) may be gone from my telescope, but its lesson remains etched in the sky: Do not fear the end of the road. It is often just the beginning of a much larger, more radiant story.

Until next time! Keep looking up,

-Greg

https://artemislive.OurNightSky.us

If you’ve been stepping outside and looking up at that glowing orb (the moon) in our sky lately, you know the feeling of wonder it brings. This month it’s known as “the pink moon”. But right now, there is something extra special happening up there. For the first time in over 50 years, humans are journeying back to the Moon, and I wanted to make sure our community had the best seat in the house.

I am beyond thrilled to announce the official launch of the Artemis II Live Dashboard right here on OurNightSky!

Track the Mission Live: https://artemislive.OurNightSky.us

Why I Built This

The Artemis II mission is more than just a flight; it’s a historic leap. With NASA astronauts Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, and Christina Koch, along with CSA’s Jeremy Hansen, currently aboard the Orion spacecraft, we are watching history unfold in real-time.

While there are official NASA resources out there, I wanted to create a dedicated space for our OurNightSky community, a dashboard that brings all the vital mission data into one clean, easy-to-read experience. Whether you’re a casual stargazer or a serious space enthusiast, this tracker is designed to keep you connected to the crew every mile of the way.

What’s Inside the Dashboard?

When you visit the tracker, you’ll get a real-time look at the mission’s progress, including:

• Live Velocity & Distance: See exactly how fast Orion is traveling and how many thousands of miles it is from Earth (and how close it’s getting to the lunar surface!).

• Mission Milestones: Follow along with the "Free Return" trajectory. From the successful Trans-Lunar Injection to the upcoming lunar flyby and the final splashdown in the Pacific.

• Orbital Visualization: A clear look at where the spacecraft sits in its 10-day journey around our celestial neighbor.

Join the Journey

We are currently in the middle of a 10-day mission that launched on April 1st. As the crew prepares to swing around the far side of the Moon, further than almost any human has ever traveled, I’ll be glued to this dashboard, and I hope you will be too.

This mission is the bridge to the future, paving the way for the first woman and next man to step onto the lunar surface in just a few years. It’s a reminder that the "Night Sky" isn't just something to look at, it’s a place we are exploring.

Head over to https://artemislive.OurNightSky.us now to see where the crew is right this second.

Until next time! Keep looking up!

-Greg

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A new comet always feels like a door quietly opening in the night sky, and Comet C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS carries that same gentle invitation. It arrives without fanfare, drifting into our awareness like a surprise left on the front porch, unexpected, unearned, and somehow exactly what the heart needed.

I have found that comets don’t follow our rhythms or our plans. They appear when they choose, not when we’re “ready,” and that alone makes them feel like grace. C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS is another reminder that the universe still has surprises tucked away, waiting for the right moment to reveal them. This will be the 30th comet that I have imaged over the last 13+ years as an astrophotographer.

When I step outside to look for a comet, I’m reminded that life’s most meaningful blessings often arrive the same way:

• quietly

• unpredictably

• beautifully

• and with a timing that makes sense only in hindsight

Comets are God’s way of whispering, “I still delight in giving you things you didn’t even know to ask for.”

Every time a new comet appears, I feel that familiar tug, wake up early, step into the cool air, look up, and let wonder do its work. And each time, I’m struck by how these icy wanderers mirror the gifts in my own life.

Some blessings came after long seasons of waiting.
Some arrived suddenly, like a streak of light across a dark sky.
Some were small but meaningful, like a faint comet tail that only reveals itself after your eyes adjust. And some were so bright they changed the landscape of my life entirely.

C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS is another reminder that I’m surrounded by gifts I didn’t earn, family, friendships, moments of clarity, unexpected encouragement, and the quiet presence of God in ordinary days. Comets help me remember to notice them.

What I love most is that comets don’t ask for anything. They don’t demand attention. They simply show up, offering beauty to anyone willing to look up. And in that way, they teach me something about gratitude.

Life is full of gifts that appear without warning:

• a conversation that lifts the spirit

• a moment of peace in a chaotic week

• a sunrise that feels like a promise

• a small breakthrough after a long struggle

Comets remind me to hold space for surprise, to stay open, awake, and willing to be amazed.

As this new comet arcs into view, I’m reminded that blessings aren’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes they’re subtle, faint, and easy to miss unless you intentionally step outside and look.

But when you do, when you pause long enough to notice, you realize the sky is still full of gifts. And so is your life.

C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS is one more reminder that God still sends beauty into our days, often when we least expect it, often in ways we couldn’t have predicted. It’s a reminder to stay awake to wonder, to keep looking up, and to trust that unexpected gifts are still on their way.

I’m curious what part of this comet’s arrival feels most like a personal gift to you right now?

Until next time, keep looking up!

-g

This weekend, my family and I watched The Unbreakable Boy, and as a dad, it hit me harder than I expected. Not because of the son, though his joy, innocence, and resilience are beautiful, but because of the father. His struggle to hold everything together. His fear of failing the people he loves. His longing for redemption, for a second chance, for the strength to be the man his family needs.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the title was never really about the boy at all. Maybe the “unbreakable boy” one was the dad, the man who kept getting knocked down, kept carrying more than he could hold, and at a point in his life broke, failed, and had a choice to make that would redefine how he processed life struggles moving forward. Not because he was strong, but because love demanded it.

And that’s when I looked at the image I had planned to share tonight: the Whirlpool Galaxy.

A Galaxy That Holds Together What Should Fall Apart

The Whirlpool Galaxy—M51—is a cosmic dance of beauty and tension. Two galaxies locked together, one pulling on the other, stretching it, shaping it, drawing out long spiraling arms of dust and light. Astronomers call it “interaction,” but any parent knows the truth: it’s a relationship. It’s gravity. It’s the unseen pull of love and responsibility that shapes us, even when it feels like we’re being torn in two.

The smaller companion galaxy tugs on the larger one, distorting it, stirring up waves of star formation. It looks chaotic, even violent. But out of that tension comes new light, new stars, new beginnings.

Watching that movie, I felt the same gravitational pull in my own life. The weight of being a dad. The fear of messing up (which I have countless times, and still do). The hope I have is that somehow, even in the chaos, something beautiful is being formed.

The Unbreakable Moments We Don’t See

In the film, the dad keeps trying to be strong, but the truth is he’s breaking in quiet ways. And honestly, I get that. Sometimes the heaviest moments aren’t the dramatic ones, they’re the ones no one sees:

• The late‑night worries

• The silent prayers

• The guilt you carry

• The hope you cling to

• The love that keeps you going even when you feel empty

Maybe being “unbreakable” doesn’t mean never cracking. Maybe it means letting God hold the pieces when you do.

Held Together by a Greater Gravity

The Whirlpool Galaxy stays intact not because it’s untouched, but because a deeper force holds it together. And that’s the part that speaks to me tonight.

Paul writes:

“He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.” — Colossians 1:17

That includes galaxies.
That includes families.
That includes dads who feel like they’re barely holding on.

If the God who holds M51 together can sustain a galaxy being stretched and reshaped by forces beyond its control, then He can hold me together too. Even when I feel pulled apart. Even when I feel like I’m failing. Even when the weight feels too heavy.

Maybe the Title Is About All of Us

Maybe The Unbreakable Boy is really about the unbreakable love that binds a family together. Maybe it’s about the unbreakable grace that meets us in our weakness.
Maybe it’s about the unbreakable God who holds us when we can’t hold ourselves.

And maybe, just maybe, t’s about dads like me, learning that being unbreakable doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being held.

Tonight, as I look at the Whirlpool Galaxy, I’m reminded that even in the swirl of chaos, beauty is being formed. Light is being born. And God is still holding everything together.

Including me.

Including you.

Until next time, keep looking up.

-Greg

A total lunar eclipse is arriving this week, and it’s one of those sky moments that feels both ancient and intimate. On March 3, 2026, the Moon will slip fully into Earth’s shadow, turning a deep copper-red for nearly an hour, a true “blood moon,” visible across much of the world. It’s rare enough that we won’t see another like it for a while, and that rarity gives it weight. It slows me down. It makes me look up with a different kind of attention.

Whenever an eclipse approaches, I feel that familiar pull inside of me, the sense that creation is inviting me to step outside, breathe the night air, and remember that I’m part of something far bigger than my daily worries. The Moon has been a steady companion in my life, a quiet reminder of God’s consistency. But an eclipse? That’s different. It’s the Moon doing something unexpected, slipping into shadow, emerging again in fullness. It mirrors the seasons of my own faith: moments when God feels hidden, followed by moments when His presence breaks through again, unchanged.

This week’s eclipse feels especially timely. I’ve been carrying more than I admit. Some days my faith feels thin, stretched, or tired. But the Moon doesn’t panic when the shadow comes. It doesn’t question its place. It simply moves through the darkness, trusting the path set before it. And every time, the light returns.

Scientifically, a lunar eclipse is simple: Earth moves between the Sun and the Moon, casting its shadow across the lunar surface. But for thousands of years, people saw eclipses as signs, moments when heaven was speaking in a language of light and shadow. Even today, the Moon turning red stirs something instinctive in us. It’s beautiful, but also humbling. It reminds us that creation is not static; it’s alive, rhythmic, and purposeful.

The Bible doesn’t describe lunar eclipses in scientific terms, but it does speak of the Moon darkening or turning to blood in moments of spiritual significance. The prophets used this imagery to express awe, warning, or divine nearness. Peter echoes Joel’s words about “the moon turned to blood” as part of God’s unfolding story. These passages aren’t meant to make us fear the sky; they’re meant to remind us that God uses creation to get our attention, to stir our hearts, to remind us of His sovereignty.

And that’s what I feel when I watch an eclipse, not dread, but reverence. Not a sign of the end, but a sign of the One who holds the end and the beginning.

As the Moon enters Earth’s shadow, I’m reminded that shadows don’t mean abandonment. God’s faithfulness isn’t measured by how bright the night feels. Sometimes He teaches us through the dimness, through the waiting, the quiet, the slow return of light.

This eclipse is a chance to step outside and let the sky preach a sermon older than any of us: God is constant. His rhythms are trustworthy. His light returns.
Even when we feel eclipsed by our circumstances, He is not eclipsed. He is steady. He is near.

I’ll be outside with my camera, capturing this week’s Moon as it slips into that deep red glow. But more than that, I’ll be standing there with open hands, letting God remind me—again—that He is faithful in every phase, every shadow, every return of light.

There’s a reason I keep coming back to the moon.

Every week, every season, every chapter of my life, no matter what’s shifting under my feet, the moon rises. Sometimes bold and bright, sometimes thin as a whisper, sometimes hidden behind clouds I can’t see through. But it’s there. It’s always there.

This week, as I stepped outside to capture the image you see above, I felt that familiar tug in my chest, the reminder that the moon’s consistency isn’t just astronomical. It’s spiritual. It’s personal.

Because if I’m honest, there are days when my faith feels steady and days when it feels shaken. Days when I trust easily, and days when I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other. But the moon doesn’t ask me to have it all together. It simply shows up, night after night, doing what it was created to do.

And in that quiet rhythm, I hear God’s voice.

Scripture tells us that “His faithfulness reaches to the skies.” I’ve read that verse a hundred times, but standing under this week’s moon, it felt less like poetry and more like a promise. God is constant, even when I’m not. God is steady, even when my thoughts are scattered. God is present, even when I’m wrestling with the process He’s laid out in front of me.

The moon doesn’t rush. It doesn’t force its phases. It moves at the pace it was designed for. And maybe that’s the invitation for us too.

To trust the slow work of God.

To believe that even when we can’t see the whole picture, He’s still guiding the path.

To remember that faith isn’t about never struggling, it’s about returning, again and again, to the One who never changes.

So here’s this week’s moon, simple, faithful, steady. A reminder that God’s constancy isn’t fragile. It isn’t dependent on our mood or our momentum. It’s written into creation itself.

And on the nights when life feels heavy or uncertain, all we have to do is look up.

So with that, I close and remind you to always keep looking up,

Greg

There are seasons when life feels heavy, and then, somehow, something even heavier arrives. I’ve been in one of those seasons lately. The kind where you think you’ve reached your limit, only to realize the load can still grow. It’s strange how heaviness compounds like that. One burden settles in, and before you’ve found your footing, another one presses down.

A few nights ago, I pointed my telescope toward NGC 2071, a small reflection nebula tucked inside Orion. It’s not the loudest object in the sky. It doesn’t blaze like the Orion Nebula or stretch across the heavens like the Horsehead. It’s quiet, almost hidden, a pocket of dust and gas illuminated only because a nearby star lends it light.

And as I processed the image, something in me softened.

NGC 2071 is a reminder that even the heaviest regions of space, dense clouds, thick dust, places where light struggles to break through, can still reflect glory when a source of light is near. The nebula doesn’t shine on its own. It simply receives. It simply reflects.

Lately, I’ve felt more like the dust than the star. More like the heaviness than the light. But Scripture has a way of speaking into those places with a clarity I can’t muster on my own.

“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” Psalm 55:22

Not lighten you. Not fix everything immediately. Not remove every weight.

He will sustain you.

There’s something honest in that word. It acknowledges the weight. It acknowledges the reality that life can stack burdens on us faster than we can process them. But it also promises that God doesn’t step back when the load grows. He steps closer.

When one heavy thing becomes two, and two become three, He doesn’t ask me to shine. He asks me to stay near enough to His light that even my dust can reflect something of Him.

NGC 2071 is a nebula shaped by turbulence, stellar winds, collisions, pressure, chaos. And yet, in the middle of all that, it glows. Not because it’s strong, but because it’s held within the reach of a greater light.

That’s where I am right now. Maybe that’s where you are too.

If the weight feels like it’s stacking higher than you can carry, you’re not failing. You’re not weak. You’re not alone. You’re simply standing in a dense part of your story, a place where God’s sustaining presence becomes not just comforting, but essential.

Tonight, when you look at the image of NGC 2071, let it remind you of this:
Even in the heaviest places, you are still within reach of His light.
And that light is enough to sustain you until the weight shifts, until the storm settles, until the dust begins to glow again.

Until next time, keep looking up.

-g

It’s been a quiet stretch here at Our Night Sky, and I want to thank you for your patience. I’ve been under the weather these past few weeks, nothing dramatic, just the kind of lingering weariness that slows the spirit and reminds you to rest. I’ve missed writing, missed the rhythm of reflection, and missed sharing the sky with you. But tonight, the heavens offered a gentle nudge to return.

The Snow Moon rose this evening, February’s full moon, luminous and steady. It’s traditionally named for the deep snows of midwinter, a time when the land is hushed and the nights are long. Native American tribes, especially in the Northeast, gave it this name to mark the season’s severity. Others called it the Hunger Moon, a reminder of scarcity and endurance.

But tonight, it felt more like a moon of healing.

I stepped outside just after sunset, bundled up, and was still a bit foggy from the past few weeks. The moon was already climbing, casting a pale light across the bare trees and quiet fields. It wasn’t dramatic like October’s Harvest Supermoon or golden like December’s Cold Moon. It was soft. Steady. Present.

There’s a verse in Isaiah that came to mind: “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength.” That’s what the Snow Moon felt like tonight, a quiet witness to the slow work of restoration. No rush. No spectacle. Just light, faithful, and unassuming.

I just stood there and let the moon remind me that even in seasons of silence, the sky keeps watch. Even when we’re slowed by illness or weariness, the rhythms of creation continue, inviting us to rejoin them when we’re ready.

If you missed the peak tonight, don’t worry. The moon will still be nearly full tomorrow. Step outside if you can. Let its light settle over you. Let it remind you that healing takes time, and that even in the quiet, we are held.

Keep looking up,
Greg

When I step outside on a crisp winter night and look toward Taurus, my eyes are always drawn to that tiny, shimmering cluster we call the Seven Sisters, also known as the Pleiades. They’re small, almost delicate, yet unmistakably radiant. And every time I see them, something in me settles. I am reminded of the calm cold of winter, the slowing down of almost everything.

The Pleiades have been known since humanity first looked up. Ancient Greeks imagined them as seven daughters of Atlas, pursued across the heavens. Sailors used them as a seasonal clock. Farmers watched for their rising to mark planting and harvest. These stars have been a compass for both navigation and story, guiding people long before we had maps or calendars.

But what moves me most is how the Seven Sisters appear in Scripture. In Job 38:31, God asks, “Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades?” It’s a question that humbles me every time. The same cluster I can see with my naked eye, the same one that has inspired myth and poetry, is used by God as a reminder of His power, His order, and His intimate involvement in creation. The stars are not distant from Him. They are held.

And so am I.

When I look at the Pleiades, I’m reminded that even when life feels scattered, when my thoughts, responsibilities, and emotions drift in different directions, God binds what I cannot. He holds together what feels like it’s slipping apart. The Seven Sisters become a quiet sermon in the sky: a reminder that the One who set these young, blue stars in place is the same One who steadies my steps.

Tonight, as you look up at the Seven Sisters, let them speak to you too. Let them remind you that you are not navigating this life alone. There is a God who binds, who holds, who gathers, who guides. The heavens are not just beautiful — they are faithful witnesses.

And sometimes, all it takes is a moment under the night sky to remember that truth again.

Until Next Time!

Keep looking up!

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Every now and then, the Sun reminds us that even the most familiar things can surprise us. Over the past day, a vast coronal hole, one of those cooler, darker openings in the Sun’s outer atmosphere, has widened into an almost perfect circle. It’s rare to see such symmetry on a star defined by turbulence, heat, and constant motion. And yet here it is: a circle, the shape of wholeness, eternity, and return.

Much of the fast solar wind streaming from this opening is now on its way toward Earth. In the coming days, it will tug and stir at our planet’s magnetic field. And as I read this, I couldn’t help but think of how often God uses the natural world to whisper, “Pay attention. Slow down. I’m still here.”

The Past 24 Hours on the Sun

Solar activity has been steadily rising. Over the last day, the Sun produced fifteen C‑class flares, small by cosmic standards, but still reminders of the Sun’s restless energy. The strongest, a C4.4 flare from active region AR4334, peaked early this morning.

Several sunspot regions are shifting out of view, while others continue to grow in complexity. AR4336, now carrying a beta‑gamma‑delta magnetic configuration, is the one to watch. Regions like this are capable of producing stronger M‑ or even X‑class flares. It’s a reminder that even in the heavens, growth often comes with tension.

A newcomer, AR4337, has also joined the stage, already producing several flares of its own. The Sun is alive with motion, regions emerging, fading, rotating, and erupting. Nothing stays still. Nothing stays simple. And yet, God holds it all.

Solar Wind and Earth’s Response

The solar wind has strengthened, rising from about 320 km/s to nearly 400 km/s, with brief peaks even higher. The interplanetary magnetic field dipped southward for a time, an orientation that opens the door for auroras to dance across Earth’s poles.

Earth’s magnetic field has responded with quiet-to-active conditions, reaching a Kp index of 4 overnight. Nothing extreme, but enough to remind us that we live in a world connected to a star 93 million miles away.

What Lies Ahead

Forecasters expect low-to-moderate solar activity today, with a 40% chance of an M‑class flare and a small chance of something stronger. AR4336 and AR4334 are the main players shaping that outlook.

Here’s what the next few days may bring:

• January 8: Quiet to active conditions as fast solar wind arrives.

• January 9: Possible G1 geomagnetic storm intervals as a CME from January 6 brushes past Earth.

• January 10: Activity should ease, though brief storm moments may still appear.

A Moment of Faith in the Midst of Motion

As I read through today’s solar data, I felt a familiar tug, the reminder that creation is not static. The heavens declare the glory of God not by being still, but by being alive. By changing. By surprising us. By drawing circles in places we least expect them.

Maybe that’s the invitation for us today.

To let God draw a circle around our scattered thoughts.
To let Him gather the pieces of our hurried days.
To remember that even in the storms, solar or personal, there is order, purpose, and presence.

The Sun is stirring.
The sky is shifting.
And through it all, the same God who set these forces in motion holds us steady.

Until next time, keep looking up! (Just not directly as the sun!)

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This week’s night sky is packed with must-see astronomy events. From Jupiter at opposition shining brighter than any other night this year, to lingering Quadrantid meteor fireballs, there is plenty to see with the naked eye, binoculars, or a telescope.

In this episode of OurNightSky.US Live, we walk you through exactly what to look for, when to look, and how to spot each event, whether you’re a beginner stargazer or an experienced amateur astronomer.

What You’ll See This Week

Quadrantid Meteor Shower (Active)
The Quadrantids peaked earlier this month, but meteors and fireballs remain visible through January 12. The Moon is bright, but patient observers can still catch brilliant streaks across the sky.

Jupiter at Opposition – January 10
This is the best night of the year to see Jupiter. The gas giant rises at sunset, sets at sunrise, and shines at peak brightness all night long.

Jupiter’s Moons
Using binoculars or a small telescope, you can spot Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto dancing around Jupiter. We’ll show you what to look for and where to aim.

Jupiter’s Shadow Transits (Starting Jan 5)
Watch Io’s shadow cross Jupiter’s cloud tops beginning around 8:50 PM EST on January 5 — one of the most exciting telescope views available to backyard astronomers.

Saturn at Dusk
Saturn is still visible low in the western sky after sunset, but it’s sinking lower each night. Catch it now before it disappears from view.

When & Where to Watch

• Best viewing times and directions included

• Works for binoculars, telescopes, or naked-eye viewing

• Suitable for observers across North America

Why Watch OurNightSky.US Live?

✔ Weekly night-sky guides
✔ Beginner-friendly explanations
✔ Telescope & binocular tips
✔ Real-time sky events you can actually see

If you love stargazing, astronomy, or simply looking up at the night sky, you’re in the right place.

Support the Channel

If this guide helps you:

• Like the video

• Subscribe for weekly astronomy updates

• Comment with what you observed this week

Until next time, keep looking up!

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(Apple Podcast)

Keep Looking Up!

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As we step into 2026, the night sky greets us with one of its most evocative markers of winter: the Wolf Moon. It’s the first full moon of the year, rising bright and solemn against the cold January sky, a reminder that even in the quietest seasons, creation is still speaking.

The name “Wolf Moon” traces back to traditional Indigenous and early Colonial naming practices. January was the time when wolves were often heard howling across snow‑covered landscapes. These howls weren’t signs of danger but of communication, wolves calling to one another, strengthening bonds, and navigating the leanest stretch of winter together.

There’s something fitting about that image as we begin a new year. The Wolf Moon invites us to listen closely, to reconnect, to gather our communities, and to move forward with intention.

Astronomically, the Wolf Moon is simply the first full moon of the year. But symbolically, it’s become a moment of:

• Renewal — a natural reset as the year begins

• Clarity — the bright winter moon cutting through long nights

• Connection — a reminder that we’re not meant to journey alone

For skywatchers, it’s also one of the best full moons for crisp, high‑contrast viewing. Cold air holds less moisture, giving the lunar surface a sharpness that summer nights rarely match.

So bundle up, step outside, and let the first full moon of 2026 set the tone for the year ahead.

What’s Coming to Our Night Sky in 2026

2025 was a year of rebuilding, refining, and rediscovering the heart of Our Night Sky. Now, 2026 is the year I push to grow, thoughtfully, creatively, and with a renewed sense of purpose.

Here’s what’s on the horizon.

More Videos, More Storytelling, More Wonder

This year, I am expanding the video presence in a big way. You’ll see:

• More sky guides

• More event breakdowns

• More behind‑the‑scenes looks at observing, gear, and astrophotography

• More faith‑centered reflections woven into cosmic moments

These videos will live both on OurNightSky.us and on a growing YouTube channel, making it easier for people to learn, explore, and share.

Introducing: Our Night Sky Live

One of the biggest additions for 2026 is a brand‑new real‑time space weather and sky‑watching tool:

Our Night Sky Live — https://live.ournightsky.us

This new platform brings together:

• Solar activity

• Aurora forecasts

• ISS passes

• Meteor shower visibility

• Cloud cover and transparency

• Moon phase and rise/set times

• Planetary viewing conditions

All in one clean, fast, mobile‑friendly dashboard.

It’s built for beginners, seasoned observers, photographers, and anyone who wants to know what the sky is doing right now.

A Year of Expansion, Creativity, and Community

Our Night Sky has always been about more than astronomy. It’s about wonder. It’s about connection. It’s about finding meaning in the quiet places, the same way the Wolf Moon once called communities to listen and gather.

In 2026, I am leaning deeper into that mission.

More resources.
More tools.
More ways to help people look up with purpose.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Here’s to a year of clarity, creativity, and cosmic beauty.

And here’s to the Wolf Moon, rising soon, calling us forward.

Until next time! Keep Looking Up!

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I’ve spent countless nights under the night sky, camera pointed upward, heart wide open, mind wandering into the deep. The question comes naturally when you spend enough time staring into the quiet: Are we alone out here?

It’s a question that stirs both Christians and non‑Christians. Some feel threatened by it. Others feel liberated. And some, like me, stand somewhere in the middle, curious, thoughtful, and grounded in a faith that doesn’t crumble when the universe feels bigger than we imagined.

The truth is, from a Christian perspective, we are never alone.
Not because of the possibility of other life, but because Jesus Himself promised:

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” — Matthew 28:20

That verse alone reframes the entire conversation. Even if the cosmos is teeming with life or completely silent, His presence is constant. His nearness is not dependent on what we discover or don’t discover.

When I think about the possibility of life beyond Earth, I don’t feel threatened. I don’t feel like it diminishes humanity’s place in God’s story. Scripture is clear about how God sees us:

“What is mankind that you are mindful of them… You made them a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned them with glory and honor.” — Psalm 8:4–5

And again:

“So God created mankind in his own image…” — Genesis 1:27

Nothing in the vastness of space changes that.
If God chose to create other beings somewhere out there, it wouldn’t undo His love for us or the identity He gave us. We are still image‑bearers. We are still the ones He walked with in the garden. We are still the ones He redeemed through Christ.

That’s not arrogance. It’s simply accepting what Scripture says about who we are.

Some Christians fear that asking these questions means doubting God.
But I’ve found the opposite to be true.

The more I learn about the universe, the galaxies, the nebulae, the exoplanets, the more I feel the weight of Psalm 19:

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” — Psalm 19:1

Exploring creation doesn’t pull me away from God.
It draws me closer.

It reminds me that the same God who crafted the stars also crafted me.
It reminds me that mystery is not the enemy of faith.
It reminds me that wonder is a form of worship.

Here’s where I land, personally:

I don’t believe we’re alone in the universe.
But that belief doesn’t shake my faith; it strengthens it.

Because if God chose to create life elsewhere, then His creativity is even more expansive than we imagined. His glory stretches farther than our telescopes can see. His story is bigger than our planet, but His love is still intimate enough to reach my small backyard on planet earth.

And if we are alone, if Earth is the only place where life exists, then that only magnifies the miracle of our existence. It means God placed humanity in a universe-sized cathedral and said, “This is for you.”

Either way, Jesus is still with us.
Either way, we are still His.
Either way, the heavens still declare His glory.

I don’t need all the answers.
I don’t need certainty about what’s out there.
I just need the One who promised to walk with me, guide me, and hold me, no matter how vast the night sky becomes.

So I keep looking up.
I keep wondering.
I keep trusting.

Because the universe is big, but my God is bigger.
And whether the stars hold neighbors or only echoes, I know this much:

We are not alone. We never have been. We never will be.

So until next year! Keep Looking Up!

-g

There’s a strange tenderness to these days right before Christmas. The lights glow a little warmer, the nights stretch a little longer, and the world seems to hum with anticipation. And yet, if I’m honest, this is also the time of year when my heart feels unexpectedly heavy.

I’ve learned I’m not alone in that.

For many of us, the days surrounding Christmas stir up a quiet sadness we don’t always know how to name. It’s not a lack of gratitude. It’s not a rejection of joy. It’s something more subtle, a mixture of longing, memory, expectation, and the weight of a year that’s almost over.

Part of it is the contrast. Christmas promises peace, hope, and joy, and we want those things so deeply that the gap between our longing and our reality can feel sharper than usual.

Part of it is memory. The holidays remind us of people we miss, traditions that have changed, and years that slipped by faster than we expected.

Part of it is exhaustion. December asks a lot of us, both emotionally and spiritually, as well as financially and socially. Even good things can stretch us thin.

And part of it is simply the human condition. We were made for eternity, yet we live in a world that is still being redeemed. Our souls feel that tension.

If you feel a heaviness before or after Christmas, it doesn’t mean you lack faith. It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It doesn’t mean you’re doing the season wrong.

It means you’re human.

Even the first Christmas was wrapped in both glory and ache, angels singing in the night sky while a young couple navigated uncertainty, displacement, and fear. Joy and sorrow have always lived close together.

I’ve been learning a few things that help me stay grounded when the melancholy settles in. Let me share them:

• Name what you’re feeling. Unspoken sadness grows heavier. Bringing it into the light, even quietly, even just to God, loosens its grip.

• Slow down on purpose. The world rushes toward Christmas. Our souls don’t have to. A quiet walk under the night sky, a candle lit in the dark, a whispered prayer, these small pauses matter.

• Let go of the pressure to “feel festive.” Joy isn’t a performance. It’s a presence. Christ meets us where we are, not where we think we should be.

• Remember that longing is holy. The ache we feel is often a sign of our desire for wholeness, belonging, and restoration, the very things Jesus came to bring.

The older I get, the more I realize that Christmas joy isn’t about sentiment. It’s not about perfect moments or perfect moods. It’s not even about the holiday itself.

It’s about the Person at the center of it.

Christ is our joy, not because He removes all sadness, but because He enters into it with us. He is Emmanuel, God with us, in the quiet, in the chaos, in the ache, and in the hope.

Our joy is rooted in a Savior who came close, who understands our humanity, and who promises that the story isn’t over, even when the year has worn us thin, even when our hearts feel tender, even when the night feels long.

As we approach Christmas and the turning of the calendar, I’m reminding myself of this:

Joy doesn’t always feel loud. Sometimes it’s a steady glow, like a star that refuses to burn out, even on the longest night.

And maybe that’s enough.

May Christ meet you gently in these days. May His presence steady your heart. And may His joy that is both quiet, faithful, and real, let it carry you into the year ahead.

Until next time, keep looking up!

-g