When the Sky is More Than a Ceiling

A meditation on wonder, holy imagination, and being small on purpose

When was the last time you laid on the ground and looked up at the sky?

Not just glanced, not just noticed—
but truly looked.

Like you were searching for something hidden in the folds of the clouds.
Like the breeze could carry a whisper if you stayed still enough to hear it.

I did that yesterday.
No agenda.
No Instagram story.
No podcast in my ears.

Just me and the sky—
blue as baptismal water, soft as benediction.

I tried to count every strand of every cloud.
Tried to gaze so far into the blue that I forgot what was behind me.

And something happened.
My mind, which had been tired and tethered to to-do lists,
started to wander.

It wandered past my fears.
It wandered into old memories.
It wandered through doors I’ve never opened,
dreams I’ve delayed,
and places I’ve prayed for but never named aloud.

A wandering mind is not a lazy one.

It’s a longing one.

A mind that needs exercise just like the body—
not to run faster, but to stretch into mystery.
To imagine again.
To remember it’s okay to be small.

I forget that sometimes. Maybe you do too.

We rush to be significant,
to do something meaningful,
to produce,
to protect,
to prove we belong.

But the sky says otherwise.
The sky says, “You are already part of something vast.
Already part of something beautiful.”

And maybe the clouds don’t need names.
And maybe the sky doesn’t need a filter.
Maybe we just need to lay back for once
and let ourselves be held by it.

But what happens when we don’t?
When we stop letting our minds drift,
stop tracing the outline of clouds
like questions we’re not in a hurry to answer—
when we choose productivity over presence,
noise over noticing,
certainty over curiosity…

We grow brittle.
We become efficient but empty.
We lose our poetry.
Our imagination shrinks,
and with it, our compassion.

We forget that we once dreamed.
That we once listened.
That we were once soft enough
to believe God might still whisper.

And soon, the sky becomes a ceiling.
A lid.
Not a window.

So we build taller ladders.
We shout louder prayers.
We scroll longer timelines.
All in search of something
that was always above us, waiting.

So here’s my invitation: This week, take five minutes to look up.
Lay on the grass.
Sit on a bench.
Lean against your porch rail.
And let your mind wander—
not to solve or to plan,
but to wonder and to rest.