Road to Bountiful by Donald S. Smurthwaite Page A

stars. The filmy clouds in the sky seems to have disappeared, too. The sky is clear and dazzling. The storm is over.
    “In another mile or so, there’s a turnout, Levi, a rest area. There are many other stars out tonight. The clouds have vanished. It’s always good to view them after a storm. It makes me feel as though the world has been washed; it is fresh, and we have the chance to start all over. It’s a funny thought, Levi, certainly odd, I acknowledge. Daisy sometimes told me I imagined too many things, but I always enjoy thinking what perhaps no one else ever has. Let’s pull over and take a look up. What do you think? Eh?”
    What do I think? Part of me hears the siren call of the six hundred dollars waiting at the end of the road, and the sooner I get there, the faster I have the wad of green clutched in my happy little fists, and Levi becomes one blissful guy. The other part of me wonders why I don’t know the name of more stars and why I can’t pick out more constellations.
    I’ve had the time to do so. Can’t blame it on that. I just haven’t done it. Like family history or food storage or waiting until the end of the month to do my home teaching. Human error. Avoidable. But oh so easy.
    It will be okay, I think, to drag my feet a little on this trip. I lean forward, bend over the steering wheel, and look at the North Dakota night sky. Even as we bomb down the dark road, I can see what looked like a thousand stars. An image of creation floats into my mind.
    Wisdom, at least my brand of it, seems to say, “Pull over and look up at the stars. Uncle Loyal is right. Let’s take a look up.”
    I draw in my breath. I tell my great-uncle something that I can hardly believe, even as I hear my own voice say it.
    I tell him, “Yeah, show me where to turn. It’s a beautiful night. You’re right. We can slow down. Let’s go look at the stars.”

Chapter Nine
    When You See a Shooting Star You May Be Seeing Yourself
    I am discovering this much: my nephew is a young man capable of surprises. I mentioned the turnout along the highway but didn’t expect him to pull in for a chance to look into the night sky. But he agreed. We drove slowly to the darkest part of the rest area and spent a few minutes gazing at the sky. Then, I believe I surprised my grand-nephew by walking to the front of the car, bracing myself, and leaning back until I lay on its hood, my hands folded behind my head to provide a bit of a cushion. Shyly, he came around to the front of the car and did likewise. There we were. Two men on the warm and slightly dirty hood of a car staring straight toward heaven.
    I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I squint, and my eyes dart across the black canvas of the sky overhead. Slowly, it comes to view, begins to make sense, as though we are sorting through the pieces of a vast puzzle. I tell him, “Look there, see that? It’s Cygnus, the Swan, and its white giant. And there. Over there. Look there. Do you see it? Sagittarius, the Archer. We have picked a fine night for star gazing,” I say.
    He looks.
    “I can’t see an archer. I can’t see a swan.” Then he looks a little more. We need see no more than a dark summer sky to understand that God works in patterns. Beautiful, precise, and brilliant patterns. Levi begins to put together pieces into a whole. “Oh. Now. Yeah. Maybe I can. I think I see it now. Both of them. I dig this. You connect the dots. Yes, I see.”
    “Yes. You connect the dots.”
    The sky had totally cleared; the stars sparkle as though they are jewels scattered on a roll of dark velvet. It is satisfying to introduce my young great-nephew to the stars. I hope he’ll remember to look toward heaven on pitch-black nights in future times. I hoped he would learn the beauty of patterns, the strength in slowness, the wonder of pace, the link between wisdom and time.
    “We have a long trip ahead. I think we should be getting on our way again,” I finally suggest. “Maybe we’ve seen