Friday morning, just before dawn, I stepped outside into the hush of Friday’s earliest light. The sky was still cloaked in indigo, but there, low in the east, hung a breathtaking sight: the waning crescent moon, Venus gleaming right beside it, and the star Regulus completing the trio like a quiet signature from the heavens.
They were aligned so closely, almost impossibly so. A sliver of moon, only 6% lit, hovered above Venus, which outshone everything else in the sky. Regulus, the heart of Leo, lingered nearby. I didn’t need a telescope. Just my eyes. Just my heart.
And in that moment, I felt something deeper than awe; I felt spoken to.
Conjunctions like this are rare. They’re fleeting. By now, the moon will have moved on. But Friday, it paused. It lingered. It drew near. And I couldn’t help but see the metaphor: how even in our waning, even in our quietest phases, we can still reflect light. We can still draw near to beauty. We can still align with something eternal.
Venus, often called the Morning Star, has long been a symbol of hope and promise. In Scripture, it’s a name given to Christ Himself, “the bright Morning Star.” And here it was, shining beside the moon, as if to remind me: even when I feel dim, even when I feel like I’m fading, His light is near. His presence is radiant.
Regulus, the kingly star in Leo, added its own whisper. A reminder of royalty, of divine order, of the Lion of Judah. The heavens were not just putting on a show; they were telling a story. One of proximity. Of grace. Of alignment.
I stood there, barefoot on dew-soaked grass, and let the silence speak. I prayed, not with words, but with breath. With wonder. With gratitude.
Each morning’s sky is a sanctuary. And I am reminded: sometimes, God doesn’t shout. Sometimes, He aligns. Quietly. Perfectly. Just before sunrise.