If you want a window to the miraculous, wait for sundown on a summer night.
Summer days are bold and brassy—sun that sizzles the hazy hall of sky; shimmering heat squirming serpentine across the parched earth; the throbbing drone of insects clacking ceaselessly. But summer nights—well, that’s a different story. When the sun sinks into the fringe of clouds that border the horizon, a cool, sweet freshness replaces the scorching scourge. Fireflies light their lanterns in the brushy bits of woodland. Tree toads trill their tunes. Even the incessant lilt of the chuck-will’s-widow blends seamlessly with the beauty of the night.
In the lingering last moments of a summer twilight, the dreams of the slumbering earth dance around me, and I turn my gaze upward—toward the very gate of glory.
And there, at once closer than a mere heartbeat and farther than the memory of forever, are the stars. They leap to life against the silken scroll of sky—the worlds that wander just outside my frame of reference—galaxies galore twirling through the vault of space.
I’m a member of an insulated generation, heads down and hearts closed, and so I don’t know the stars as well as I should, haven’t mapped their magic like my ancestors did, those who stared at the sky instead of screens. The mystery was mightier for them, living as they did with their very hearts rooted to the land. Now I must contend with artificial lights to beckon indoors, burgeoning cities to dilute the darkness and steal the show from the stars. But even so, the faces of a few constellations flash familiar. Cassiopeia, the elegant queen poised on her throne…Orion, the mighty hunter, brandishing his sword while his faithful hound, Canis Major, trots at his heels…the lithe curve of Draco, the cunning dragon, creeping along the horizon.
These characters will pass in and out of the parade throughout the year, as the earth’s tilt banishes some stars below the horizon. However, one very special star can be seen during any season. In the northern sky, right where the sky arches silver over the shadowed fields, I find the Big Dipper hanging from its handle. A line drawn through the two stars at the outer side of the Dipper’s bowl will point with the precision of an arrow to this remarkable star—Polaris.
Polaris is at the tip of the handle of the Little Dipper, ensconced by two stars known as the “Guardians of the Pole.” Also called the North Star or Pole Star, it’s the star that aligns with due north. It’s also the only star that doesn’t appear, from our perspective, to move significantly; a time-lapse image of the night sky will show the stars swirling in concentric rings around Polaris, the hub of this great wheel. Indeed, the Inuit name for Polaris is Nuuttuittuq, meaning literally “the one that never moves.”
The bright beacon of Polaris has guided people for centuries. The Viking explorers who discovered North America set their sails toward its light. Stargazers from all cultures have marveled at its constancy and spun stories about its identity. In antebellum America, it held out hope to those in the shackles of slavery, guiding them toward freedom and a future. Even today, Polaris offers reassurance to bewildered hikers caught after dark (I may or may not be speaking from experience). Across thousands of years and dozens of cultures, Polaris symbolizes strength, constancy, faithfulness.
Yet it hasn’t always.
Few people realize this, but Polaris has only been our North Star since approximately A.D. 500. When the ancients marked the solstice at Stonehenge and the pyramids of Egypt were rising from the desert sands, when Abram gaped at the stars as God promised him innumerable descendants, when sleepy shepherds in Bethlehem were startled by angelic voices in the night sky, the North Star was not Polaris but the star Thuban, or Alpha Draconis. To these observers, Thuban was positioned closest to the North Pole and was the star of direction.
It’s a phenomenon called precession that causes this change. As the earth spins on its axis, it wobbles a bit due to gravity from the sun and moon. Over thousands of years of this gradual wobbling, Earth’s axis traces a circle in the sky. As a result, the honor of being the “North Star” rotates through a cycle of stars.
So Polaris hasn’t always been the North Star; and what’s more, it won’t always be. In about 2,000 years, Gamma Cephei, a star in the constellation Cepheus, will be our North Star. Around AD 7500, the honor will go to the star Alderamin. In 13,000 years, the bright star Vega will be the North Star. And in a mere 26,000 years—should the earth last that long—Polaris will once more assume its role as the personification of the Pole.
It’s a strange feeling—to realize that this star that seems so immovable is actually not at all. Polaris is the very figure of faithfulness; yet in reality, it’s no more permanent than any other star.
And shouldn’t that come as no surprise, really—in this world where we’re always chased by change?
The stars spin, and so do our lives. Like a strong wind, change sends our souls sailing forward with no regard for our wishes. Static stories are impossible. Love blooms like a fragrant flower; then the relationship wilts away. We hold the tiny hands of a child; the child is grown in a heartbeat of time. We leap up the ladder of our career; we seek the peace of retirement. We enter the empty house we’ll make our own; we pack up our memories and move away. As certain as the sweep of the stars, as pervasive as precession, change is a constant. We can no more escape the difficult seasons than we can prolong the pleasant ones.
And we face change not only in our personal lives, but in the world as well. We’ve seen that especially in the year 2020, the year that shredded any sense of stability. We were divided by the same sad story of bias and bitterness. We were ravaged by a pandemic that not only threatened our health but held hostage our normalcy. We endured crushing catastrophes and weary weeks and upheavals that felt like the anguished convulsions of the earth itself.
So if our lives change—if the world changes—then perhaps it’s no surprise that the stars are changing too. The chorus of change is sung throughout our universe.
But where does that leave us? In a world where all we see is as ephemeral as a summer night, how should we respond?
Some people can’t bear to admit how fragile their life is, how slippery their seeming security. These individuals crave control, long for the guarantee that somehow, someway, they can escape change. They obsessively plan, prepare, and worry—and are left devastated when change upends their efforts anyway.
Others rightly admit that we can’t control change, but they allow this truth to steal their power. They shrug off every circumstance as a random twist in a cosmic dice roll and urge us to accept that, underneath it all, there is no meaning, no majesty—only luck and loss.
I’m convinced that both of these beliefs hang hollow. We were never designed to live with tear-streaked faces and frantic fists, grappling desperately for corners of control. Nor were we intended to subside into surrender and resign ourselves to the capricious whims of a chaotic universe. Instead, the transience of earth was meant to propel us toward the only One Who never changes—God Himself.
Think once more about the stars. Yes, the earth is wobbling. Yes, the North Star is changing. But what lies behind the stars will never change—North itself.
You see, a north star is simply selected for its accuracy in aligning with North. But although these stars may vary, the direction doesn’t. North is always North. The stars may scramble in the sky. The earth may tilt on its turn. But the compass doesn’t alter. The direction we call North today was the direction called North at creation, and it will be the direction we call North in fifty thousand years.
My friend, the same is true in our lives as well. Our circumstances may change. Our surroundings may alter. The topography of tomorrow may shift beyond our wildest dreams. But the One behind the stars will never change.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8 ESV). What a ribbon of reassurance in those words! This doesn’t mean God is monotonous, a song sung stale. And it doesn’t mean He is outdated, obsolete for our modern minds. No, it means He is faithful. We will forever be discovering more and more of His character, but His character doesn’t waver.
And when we discover this—when we reach through the quagmire of change to the bedrock grace of our constant God—then we live in a whole new way.
First, we detach our desires from temporary things. I’m reminded of 2 Corinthians 4:18: “For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (ESV). Understanding that our struggles, our strivings, and even the earth itself are temporary gives us a better perspective. We learn to view change not as a foe who will strike despite our best efforts, but as a natural rhythm to life on this earth.
And this frees us to prioritize what is eternal. “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever” (Isaiah 40:8 ESV). How much time do we devote to pursuits that will so soon be past? How much worry do we waste on fears that will fade before the dawn? Embracing change endows us with an eternal perspective, and we begin to prioritize what will last—knowing God’s Spirit and Word, forming a relationship with Him, and sharing His goodness and glory with the world.
But perhaps the most powerful part of this truth is the freedom to live with courage. The Psalmist declared it best: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah” (Psalm 46:1-3 ESV).
My friends, these verses sink deep into my soul. We’ve all had times when the waters of the world roared with rage. We’ve all cried out in anguish as we saw our majestic mountains—the very things we cherished for their seeming permanence—sink into its surf. We’ve all had days when our tumult seemed so shattering that we wondered if Heaven itself were shaken, if God Himself might just crumble along with our every hope.
But if you feel choked by change—if your mountains are melting and your seas are swelling and your stars are swirling in the sky—then please hear this hope: in every upheaval or uncertainty, storm or struggle, God is forever faithful. We can face a wavering world with assurance—not because we can defend ourselves against change, not because we can dictate its direction, not even because we have a guarantee that tragedy will never trample our hearts.
No, our trust is stronger than that—a living link with the God of glory, the One Who stands behind the stars, the One Whose hands can still hold every color of change and paint a masterpiece. The next time you marvel at the silver sparkle of the swinging stars, remember David’s prayer: “[The heavens] will perish, but you [God] will remain…you are the same, and your years have no end” (Psalm 102:26a, 27b ESV).
Did you enjoy this post? How have you seen God’s faithfulness this month? Let me know in the comments! Also, you can find the podcast version here!
Don’t forget: my devotional book, A Year in the Woods, is available now! Combining stunning nature photography with lyrical writing, this book is a journey through the seasons of nature and the pages of Scripture. Check it out now! >