. . . and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen as its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. Matthew 2:9b, 10.

This is my last week of alleged vacation before I start “for real” at Holy Trinity. So, even if it meant missing my daily routine in the YMCA therapy pool, I was determined to sleep in this morning.  Naturally, I woke up at 4:50 a.m. Wide awake. Staring into the dark.

OK. Fine. I’ll go.

I hauled myself out of the warm bed, threw together my swim bag, and drove through the dark, past the traffic lights blinking in the pre-dawn cold, beneath a sky bleached starless by city glow.

I grew up on a remote farm where, on a clear night, with a new moon, I could see a lazy galactic arm stretched pale and gauzy overhead. Nights like those it’s easier to imagine a star so bright its message would be unambiguous-King of Kings this way! I’d love a sign so clear and sure, its destination known in advance. But for most of us, life is subtle, our star a moving target.

Inside, the Y was all cold tile and electric light-a scalding brightness. M. was there like she is every morning working her damaged knee. We exchanged greetings: How was your Christmas? She answered, My mother died last week.

Soon we were deep in conversation, our bodies moving in tandem through the warm water. She told her story. I told her of the hospice vigils I’ve done, companioning people in their last hours.

They say that hearing is that last thing to go, she said.

I believe that, I replied, from what I’ve seen.

Really?! You think so? Her relief was palpable. Oh, thank you! I just needed to know she heard me when I asked for forgiveness.

And then I knew why I’d awakened at oh-dark-thirty with no alarm.

As we travel through these dark winter nights of Epiphany, may we trust the journey, knowing that star or no star we’ll arrive exactly where we’re meant to be.