David McElroy

I had one of those moments again recently.

I was watching a video on YouTube when I suddenly realized that I didn’t care about what I was seeing.

The video wasn’t bad. It wasn’t offensive. It wasn’t stupid. In fact, it was reasonably interesting. That was the problem.

I sat there for a moment and asked myself a question that has become increasingly common in the last few years: Why am I spending part of my life on this?

I don’t remember what the subject was. It could have been history. It could have been politics. It could have been science, culture, economics, theology or some obscure piece of trivia. The specific topic doesn’t matter because the pattern is always the same.

I start with something that I specifically want to know. Then another thing catches my attention. Then another. One link leads to another. One article leads to another. One video suggests another video. Before I realize what has happened, an hour has disappeared. Then another. And then I realize it’s 4 in the morning — and I’ve wasted hours.

The strange thing is that I wasn’t seeking entertainment.

Most discussions about distraction focus on entertainment. We imagine people wasting their lives watching mindless videos, scrolling through inane social media or consuming celebrity gossip or watching “reality TV.” Certainly some people do that, but that’s not my problem.

My problem is curiosity.

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The canopy of green covered most of my front yard. It was a huge and majestic tree. Every time I left my house, I walked underneath that canopy. It was routine. But on the rare occasions when I stopped and looked up through those leaves, everything changed.

I was no longer in my yard. I was in a cathedral. I felt power and love and reverence. It was like worship. Not for the tree, but for the tree’s maker. I felt connected to something far bigger and more powerful than I was.

It happens over and over. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had experiences that make me feel a certain way. They’re experiences that seem to whisper, “Pay attention. This is important.”

A sky to my west bursts with color and light and beauty. It reaches out for me in a powerful way. It makes me feel as though I’m closer to ultimate power. Ultimate beauty. Ultimate truth.

A 5-year-old child who hasn’t seen me lately runs to me as I walk in. He throws his little arms around me and shouts my name. He says he loves me and has missed me. Something in his grip and in his eyes makes me feel alive and loved. And it makes me feel close to whoever made both of us.

All sorts of things can trigger this experience for me. A beautiful photograph. Sunsets. A dog. The sounds of birds and crickets at dawn. Being forgiven by someone I’ve wronged. A thunderstorm. The love of the right woman. The purr of a sleeping cat.

Every one of these experiences — and dozens more — can trigger a feeling for me. For years, I didn’t recognize the connection between these. I just saw them as random parts of life that made me feel something.

These things are all very different, but they’re all gateways to something sacred. Every one of them can be a portal to an experience of beauty. And love. And truth. Or Truth.

For me, they’re all connections to the Source of everything. They’re all invitations to experience the divinity of a Creator whose face I can’t see — but whose presence is in each of these powerful encounters.

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I hadn’t planned to do any stargazing tonight.

But I was enjoying a conversation with the woman who was with me and I wasn’t quite ready for it to end. As I was taking her back to her car, I took a slight detour to a hill which is my favorite spot from which to watch sunsets.

It was past 10 p.m., so the sky was mostly dark except for the faint glow of city lights to the west of us. The stars seemed to stretch forever. The view was beautiful. Almost inevitably, our conversation turned to the thoughts which such a view inspires.

She said that when she looks at the stars, she feels small and insignificant.

I’ve heard many people express some version of that idea over the years. It’s turned up in books, movies and conversations. People look at the vastness of the universe and conclude that they are tiny, temporary creatures occupying an insignificant corner of existence.

I understand what they mean. I just don’t feel that.

In fact, I’ve never felt it.

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