We sat on the deck of our large cabin overlooking the small lake near Durango.  Janet and Doug, friends from college, had joined us for days of hiking, horseback riding, taking a train to Ouray, shopping, eating, drinking, and catching up.  Even our children were enjoying the trip and finding adventures in the gardens and fields of sheep.  That night we sat talking quietly as we looked at a dark sky made brilliant by myriads of stars until we saw one streak of light followed by another until suddenly the shower of meteors began flying across the heavens in an unending downpour of silver brightness. Our silence was a reverent awe, captivated by the beauty and a deep understanding of the universe’s vastness and our small place in it.

I have experienced other moments of wonder:  looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon, walking along a beach while waves crashed then crawled to shore, standing on our ship’s balcony as we approached a towering blue and white glacier and watched as a section calved and exploded into the sea, entering my daughter’s recovery room to see her newborn twins cradled in their father’s arms.  Meeting the grandchildren I would love and watch change from needy, beautiful infants to lively, curious children who would bring such joy into my life. Children who would become young men long after I was gone, who would be my legacy in a future beyond me.

Awe would strike me again on a trip to Paris.  I have never been overly impressed by cathedrals.  Notre Dame is dark and cold leaving me feeling less spiritual and more acutely aware of the medieval workers and poor who sacrificed themselves for its building.  But then I went to Sainte Chappelle.  The first floor was lovely enough I suppose, but it was the second floor that filled me with awe.  I left a winding staircase and stepped into a room with floor to ceiling stained glass that surrounded us with light muted by the blue, rose, and golden colors of the soaring windows.  Speechless, awestruck.

In the Louvre, I turned a corner and was confronted by Michelangelo’s two unfinished statues titled The Slaves.  They stand side by side, each one a man struggling to emerge from rough stone.  I put my hand on one of them.  The marble felt warm to me, almost alive, and in that moment, I was touching the artist. Michelangelo, whose hand had once been where mine was now.  Centuries disappeared.  What remained was wonder, an overwhelming admiration for a man of such imagination, talent, and passion.

Years later I would walk the paved streets in Florence to Dante’s house, a path his sandaled feet had once trod as had all the Florentine artists and merchants and citizenry.  Five hundred years ago.  And again, I was overcome with a reverent connection to humanity, both those who achieved heights and those whose lives like mine were far more humble.

And so it goes—awe striking at unexpected times.  It captures us with heart-stopping moments whether in nature, in the amazement at man’s achievement, or in the love that connects us to history, the universe, and one another.

Billie Cox