It’s official: our entire household is obsessed with outer space. Our children have a solar system hanging over their beds, our upstairs hallway is graced by images of the Milky Way, and when nighttime falls, glow-in-the-dark planets sing an eventide song of praise to the God who made them all and yet is mindful of one little family staring up in wonder.
In recent weeks our bedtime ritual has been going like this: after everyone has been bathed and brushed, we descend the stairs and get comfortable on the couch. Then one of us removes the shade from our living room floor lamp. With great ceremony, we turn off all the lights—that is, all the lights but that one floor lamp, whose bare bulb magically becomes the shining sun. Then one of our two children (we’re careful to have them take turns) stands facing that light, holding up at arm’s length a yellow pencil stuck into the bottom of a large, white styrofoam ball.