What If Grace Moves at the Speed of Stars?”
Reflections on patience, divine mercy, and the quiet wisdom of the night sky.
Last night, I stood beneath a quiet Georgia sky, waiting for a meteor that never came.
I was hoping to catch the tail end of the Draconids. I caught one earlier this week (see video above). The forecast promised clear skies, and I imagined a gentle cascade of light, grace streaking across the darkness. But the heavens were still. No fire. No spectacle. Just stars, steady and silent.
And I felt it: the ache of waiting.
We live in a world that rushes. We want answers now, healing now, breakthrough now. But the night sky doesn’t rush. It moves in rhythms older than empires, slower than our impatience. The stars rise when they’re ready. Comets return after decades. Even the moon waxes and wanes with quiet resolve.
Scripture tells us that God is “slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” I’ve always loved that phrase, slow to anger. Not just patient, but deliberate. Measured. Like the orbit of Saturn or the long arc of a comet’s return. There’s grace in that slowness. A mercy that doesn’t flare up, but waits. Watches. Holds space for us to grow.
I think of my own heart, how quickly it can go to frustration, especially when things don’t go as planned. But the night reminds me: God doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t demand perfection. He waits, like the stars, for me to turn. To breathe. To begin again.
So this morning, I write not about meteors, but about mercy. About the kind of patience that holds us through the silence. The kind that doesn’t need spectacle to be holy.
If you find yourself waiting, on healing, on clarity, on hope, look up. The sky is full of reminders that grace is not always fast, but it is always faithful.
And sometimes, the most sacred thing is the stillness.
Until next time, keep looking up.
-g
