The sun went out and blackened the earth, leaving the landscape bare against that unmerciful loss of light. To some, this eclipse spoke harshly of our insignificance – tiny specks dwarfed by the vast, wheeling cosmos that draws all into its enveloping darkness.

But I’ll tell you the truth. When the sun finally tore back through that gloom edging the world, what I saw was not a lessening but a closening. Those infinite distances, forever clawing out of reach, now seemed drawn in, tight to old pastures. Into the strained handle of a worn door beneath our hand. The warmth of the porch slats through our boot soles. Even the growing hairs on our arms.

In the retreat of that cosmic radiance, the world shrank until each speck of dust, each grain, every small crevice between, became our entire domain. Ample enough for any man’s caring.

The eclipse did not dismiss our importance but summoned us to fully see this life. To heed the prick of a splinter in your thumb. To mark the chirping of sparrows deep in the brush. Let others speak of galactic visions if they wish. I’ll take the weathered board underhand. The pleasant scent of earth after a rain. For does not each of God’s majesties enshrine itself in the tiniest of things?

Is a miracle any less wondrous for being spun in modesty? I say it is the greater wonder. For only disguised as commonplace might the everyday endure that blind awe that comes with our recognizing it. The eclipse came, and the masses gaped at the drama. But when that blankness yielded again to the day, it was the everyday green fields that continued to hold my amazement.

I know what we see each day echoes the eternal, a joyful chorus of angels. Because in these ordinary miracles of light, heat, growth and our own voices, I feel the sacred essence of the universe surrounding me.

(Josh Beavers is a teacher and a writer. He was named as a semi-finalist for Louisiana Teacher of the Year in 2020. He has been recognized five times for excellence in opinion writing by the Louisiana Press Association.)