Are We Damaged Human Beings or Luminous Creatures Made of Stardust?

And what if the answer is, “Both?”

stardust

Photo Credit: vtooky via Compfight cc

Rural Iowa. A family wedding. Late night dancing. Children with sore feet. An isolated stretch of highway carries us back to our motel through cornfields and darkness.

Suddenly my wife asks me to pull over, tells the kids to get out of the car, and whispers, “You have to see the sky.” Raised within reach of Chicago’s light pollution, my kids had never seen the night sky unveiled.

We get out of the car. We stand beneath a canopy of diamonds.

Have you ever stared up into the black, star-pregnant expanse? Have you ever looked up into the vastness of a universe hurtling away from you at an unfathomable speed? Have you ever gazed upon the light of stars a billion years old?

In a cornfield in Iowa, I look up. And I feel inconsequential, unanchored, like pollen in the breeze.

I feel small.

My oldest son stands next to me, unusually silent. I wonder if he is feeling small, too. But then he looks up, and with awe in his voice he says, “Daddy, did you know humans are made of molecules from the first stars? Daddy, did you know we are stardust?”

Why Small is Only the Beginning

I think the heavens give us what we need.

As adults, we need to feel small again—it is a good and necessary experience. When we swell up with ego, feeling small shrinks us down to our actual size. When we think the world revolves around us, feeling small puts us in our proper orbit. Humility is a good thing—perhaps the best of things—and a night sky can humble an adult in a heartbeat.

But for children, who exist in a perpetual state of smallness and humility, a night sky is an entirely different kind of reminder: we are creatures composed of a brilliant light.

I think all of us need to stand in the middle of a cornfield in rural Iowa with a third grader and be reminded we are small-messy creatures and transcendent beings with the heavens in our blood.

I think we need it, because for most of us, the voice of shame has been whispering its pious rebuke at the edge of our tattered hearts for years. And it goes something like this:

“You are small and broken. Be aware of that alone. Stardust in your bones? Don’t be ridiculous—that’s a bunch of poetic nonsense, the fanciful musings of a child, romantic naiveté, the magical calculations of a bunch of physicists. Quit being arrogant and start getting real—who do you think you are to imagine you are more than small and damaged?”

When shame has convinced us that our smallness and brokenness is incompatible with our goodness and beauty and transcendence, we need more than a night sky to embrace the full, wondrous reality of who we are.

We need proof.

Which is why I’m going to tell you about my neighborhood.

Where Small and Magnificent Meet

In my neighborhood, I know a young boy who loves to read. He’s putting down his books this summer and strapping on a pair of running shoes. Instead of racking up pages, he’s going to rack up miles and raise money for his favorite charity.

That is smallness.

And stardust.

In my neighborhood, I know a family who annually hosts a lemonade stand one week a year to raise money for Blood:Water Mission. Last week, they raised thousands of dollars to give clean drinking water to people they have never met.

That is smallness.

And stardust.

In my neighborhood, I know a couple who had their hearts cracked open by orphans on the other side of the globe. They quit thinking of the orphans as “those kids,” and they decided to think of one of them as “my kid.” They will adopt him this summer.

That is smallness.

And stardust.

In my neighborhood, I know a woman with three children and a busy family. For the last decade, one night a week, she has sat up through the dark hours attending to a disabled boy who is not her own, so his parents could get some rest.

That is smallness.

And stardust.

In my neighborhood, I know a young girl who shouldn’t be alive. In infancy, she was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder and for months her parents were more familiar with the hospital than their own home. Last autumn, her family organized their annual 5K race to raise funds for research into the disease. Hundreds of people ran. One of the runners was their daughter.

That is smallness.

And stardust.

My neighborhood is just an ordinary neighborhood filled with ordinary people. Yet, at the same time, I live in a neighborhood that is, quite simply, a constellation of stars. A neighborhood of people who know they are small. And who act like they are made of stardust.

To put it simply, I live in a neighborhood of people who have been animated by grace.

Animated by Grace

Grace is ridiculous.

In one breath, it gives us a vision of our smallness and our brokenness. It gives us the freedom and courage to touch all the ways we are so fallibly human.

While in the very next breath, it gives us a vision of our magnificence and our transcendence. It gives us the freedom to know we are glorious and good and beautiful.

People who live within the freedom of this kind of grace become free to love themselves, to love each other, and to bear witness to a world that is both broken and absolutely radiant with beauty.

And you don’t have to travel to rural Iowa or to my neighborhood to be touched by grace and to become aware of your smallness and your stardust.

Because you, too, live in a neighborhood of shooting stars.

Because you, too, are both messy smallness and brilliant stardust.

Because you, too, can be animated by grace, right where you are.

I think we live in a world in which the whisper of grace is getting louder and our shame cannot withstand it and it is transforming everything within its embrace.

I think the whisper of grace is getting louder and I think it’s coming for you. And when it finds you, I think you will be the adult stargazer and the child stargazer, all at the same time.

———

Comments: You can share your thoughts or reactions at the bottom of this post.                

Free eBook: My eBook, The Marriage Manifesto: Turning Your World Upside Down, is available free to new blog subscribers. If you are not yet a subscriber, you can click here to subscribe, and your confirmation e-mail will include a link to download the eBook. Or, the book is also now available for Kindle and Nook

Preview: Next Wednesday’s post is tentatively entitled, “A Father’s Letter of Apology to His Boys (For Father’s Day).”

Disclaimer: This post is not professional advice. It should be read as you would read a “self-help” book. For professional and customized advice, you should seek the services of a counselor, who can become more intimately familiar with your specific situation. Counselors can be located through your insurance network or through your state psychological association.

Kelly is a licensed clinical psychologist and co-founder of Artisan Clinical Associates in Naperville, IL. He is also a writer and blogs regularly about the redemption of our personal, relational, and communal lives. Kelly is married, has three children, and enjoys learning from them how to be a kid again. You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, and Google+.

Please note: I reserve the right to delete comments that are offensive or off-topic.

  • Jennifer Gan

    Seriously. Aidan needs to write a book or something. Love that kid.

    • drkellyflanagan

      Jen, He told me this week he could never work in a job that required knee high socks or tucking in of shirts. So I think “writer” is still on the table! : )

  • Kim

    Thank you SO much, Kelly. I got goose bumps reading this and remembering how small and how big we are, all at the same time. What a perfect start to my day 🙂

    • drkellyflanagan

      You’re welcome, Kim!

  • Onajourney

    Well said! It’s the same way I feel when I think about the cross: I am aware of my brokenness and weakness and need of being rescued by the One who paid the price. And yet I also see my immense value in this, as He shows that I am “worth purchasing!”

    • drkellyflanagan

      Thank you for this; the cross is a powerful symbol of brokenness and glory. Glad you’re on your journey with us!

  • Laura

    I have never heard a psychologist sound just like a priest as you do. Are you aware of this? As a european psychologist, i don’t know if this amazes me or if this questions me. I guess if all sermons in christian churches were like yours i would totally be in peace with religion… But how do you translate this to your daily practice? You don’t just give advice like those to your patients/clients, do you?

    Sorry for my approximative english (i’m a french speaker).

    • drkellyflanagan

      I’m aware of it now! : ) Laura, I receive your comment as an immense affirmation and I hope the words I write continue to be worthy of it. And you ask a great question about translation to actual psychotherapy. I guess my first reaction is: my writing is actually a translation of what I do and learn in psychotherapy first. My work and my clients are, in many ways, my Muse.
      And, Laura, I think you’re English is fantastic. If you heard me speak French, there’d be real reason for apology. : )

  • Cynthia

    Simple, profound, touching…thank you, Kelly.

    • drkellyflanagan

      Thank you, Cynthia.

  • Catharine

    Lovely. Simply Lovely.

    • drkellyflanagan

      Catharine, That means a lot coming from someone who writes as lovely as you do.

  • Lisa Bartelt

    Beautiful. When did we quit looking at the stars? One of my dreams is to see the night sky somewhere even remoter than Iowa (like Canada or somewhere else I can’t imagine right now). It’s definitely spiritual.

    • drkellyflanagan

      Absolutely, Lisa. Someone told me recently that the closer you get to the equator, the more you can see of the sky in both hemispheres. Someplace dark on the equator!

  • lorluvbug

    What a precious child you have ! “to become as little children”…for such is the Kingdom of heaven

  • Pingback: Mysteries, Myths and Maniacal Mentalities | Dear Human ~ Letters to Humanity()

  • Pingback: Why the Stillest Silence Always Comes Before the Greatest Gifts | UnTangled()