Chasing Lemmons!
A Celestial Plan for When Life Feels Sour.
When the night sky gifts us a comet, it’s never just a spectacle; it feels to me more like a summons to get up and get out. Comet Lemmon, with its soft green glow and long, whispering tail, arcs across the heavens. It can feel to me like a question is being asked: Will you follow, even when the path is bitter?
We often joke about life giving us lemons. But what if the sourness isn’t a joke? What if it’s grief, burnout, uncertainty, or the slow erosion of joy? What if the lemons are real, and the only way forward is to chase them?
Comet Lemmon reminds me of the wilderness seasons in scripture. The Israelites wandered for forty years, not because they were lost, but because they were being reshaped. Elijah fled to the desert, not to escape, but to hear the whisper of God. Even Jesus was led into the wilderness, not abandoned, but prepared.
“I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that I, the Lord… call you by your name.” — Isaiah 45:3
There’s treasure in the dark. Not despite the struggle, but because of it.
Here’s what Comet Lemmon has taught me so far these last few weeks:
Look up, even when it hurts. The heavens declare the glory of God, even when our hearts feel heavy. Let the stars be your reminder that beauty still exists.
Follow the arc, not the outcome. Comets don’t move in straight lines. Neither do we. Trust the curve. Trust the detours.
Chart your course with grace. You don’t need to sprint. You don’t need to shine. You just need to keep moving, one faithful step at a time.
Invite others to watch with you. The night sky is best shared. So is the journey. Let someone see your sour season. Let someone remind you of the light.
Comet Lemmon won’t stay forever. It’s a visitor, a reminder, a gift. But its trail lingers in my photos, in my prayers, in my stories.
So if life feels sour right now, don’t despair. Chase the Lemmon. Not to escape the bitterness, but to find the sweetness hidden in the stars.
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5
The night may be long. But the sky is faithful. And so is the One who made it.
You have a rare gift for turning wonder and struggle into something luminous. Your reflections always land right where I need them most — in that space between sorrow and hope. I love how you draw wisdom not just from the spectacle of the night sky, but from the wilderness seasons we all walk through. That line about “the treasures of darkness” really resonated with me. Thank you for reminding us that the arc matters more than the outcome, that there’s beauty on the detours, and that it’s okay to move forward slowly. I’m grateful for your words and your perspective — they light up corners I’d forgotten were there.