David McElroy

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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When I first met Ben and Sarah, I really liked them. They’re in their mid-30s and have a sweet 3-year-old daughter. They’ve been married for seven years and have always lived in apartments. They had called me because they were ready to buy a house.

I had them meet with a mortgage broker to figure out what they could qualify for on their moderate income. With that number in mind, I started looking for a house that met their needs — and preferences, too, as much as possible.

I showed them close to 30 houses. Most of them were excellent starter homes in safe areas, but they were disappointed in everything.

Ben and Sarah seemed to believe their modest budget could buy the sort of house they saw on HGTV. They wanted a big house in a prestigious area. They wanted fancy kitchens and bathrooms. They turned their noses up at laminate countertops and functional bathrooms.

They eventually gave up in frustration. I assume they’re still in their apartment, paying rent.

This past week, I checked their Facebook profiles to see if I could tell if they had continued to look without me. I found a frustrated post from Sarah that complained about politicians and “billionaires” making it impossible for them to buy a home.

She complained bitterly that nobody can buy anything. She even implied it was some conspiracy to keep people like her paying rent.

As I read her entitled rant, I kept thinking of the couple of dozen comfortable houses I had shown them that were within their budget. And as much as I had liked her when we had been together, I couldn’t help seeing her as a spoiled child who was having a tantrum because she couldn’t have what she wanted — when she wanted it.

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