February 14, 2025: When God created time,

she made plenty of it.

It Takes a Universe, By Thomas Berry

The child awakens to

a universe. The mind

of the child to

a world of wonder.

Imagination to a world

of beauty. Emotions

to a world of intimacy.

It takes a universe

to make a child both

in outer form and inner

spirit. It takes

a universe to educate

a child. A universe

to fulfill a child.

Each generation presides

over the meeting of these

two in the succeeding

generation.

So that the universe

is fulfilled in the child,

and the child is fulfilled

in the Universe.

While the stars ring out

in the heavens!

Slowing Down to Witness the Sacred

You would think I would have retained more than an aphorism and a few acronyms from my EMT (emergency medical technician) training over a decade ago. But of all the lessons, one remains seared into my memory—Speed Kills. Our instructors used gruesome imagery and vivid stories to drive home the point: the greatest determinant of survival in a crash isn’t just a seatbelt or a car’s safety rating, but speed. The faster the impact, the greater the devastation. The logic follows: slow down, and the risk of catastrophe decreases. 

You would think this would come to mind when I’m barreling down the highway at 80 mph with my two kids in tow. But no, this phrase surfaced unexpectedly from the recesses of my memory as I settled into my first intentional Sabbath in far too long. Last Saturday, I locked my phone away, and something inside me—my sense of time, my capacity for awe—began to unfurl, lazily, like my black cat stretching in the sun. 

I wandered the yard with my children and, to my surprise, noticed two ripe strawberries—in January, no less. I must have walked past that patch ten times a day, but in my usual time-bent, blindness, I had missed this small miracle at my feet. I crouched down, picked the berries, one for each child, and watched their delight at this unexpected treat. 

Without any particular intention, I began gathering fallen acorns, trying to match their caps to their bodies—an act with no purpose, no clear end. My son, sensing the invitation into this slower rhythm, carefully planted the acorns around the yard, ensuring each tree would have enough space when fully grown a hundred years from now. Even he had slipped into an elongated sense of time. Or perhaps children dwell there always.

A series of small miracles, an unexpected reward for stepping through the portal of what the Jewish theologian and philosopher Abraham Heschel (1907-1972) called "the cathedral in time"—the Sabbath. 

The speed of my life literally killed my ability to see what was in front of me, the feeling of awe, and the ability to witness miracles. And while I typically resist violent language, the force of this truth makes the phrase feel fitting. Awe feels like oversized magnolia blossoms blooming inside of me—something alive, flourishing, sustaining. 

Now, on my kitchen table sits a small bowl filled with mismatched acorn caps and bodies: a quiet reminder that another world is always waiting for me on the Sabbath—should I choose to enter it. The poet John O'Donohue (1956 – 2008) passed on an old Irish saying in his writings, which I find apt: When God created time, he made plenty of it. 

Reflection by Laura Holford

Laura is a community health nurse and mom living in Sacramento. She is the co-founder of Introspective Spaces, a social venture building reflective spaces for women in healthcare, and a member of the Starcross Board of Directors and Starcross Publication Committee