ABOVE

"Morning Star", oil,
by V . . . Vaughan

    I find myself more and more thankful, these days, for the many things that are above me. Trees, for instance, seem like older sisters and brothers standing above me as I type this in the backyard. The sky spreads its ever-present and reassuring sheet above me, and above the sky, I know the concealed stars stretch their trustworthy lights. I think, too, of the countless people whom I consider to be, in some sense, above me – those who slowly and modestly store up wisdom and then share it with others, those who use bravery to beat down hopelessness, and those who love like it’s all they should ever be doing. When I say they’re above me, I don’t mean to disparage myself, but simply to say how much I look up to those who seem so strong in their goodness that no hostile force can defeat them. I look up to them because they do seem, in a way, above me, like sunshine is above the summer grass and the steadfast stars are above us all.