“. . .the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by
night.” Psalm 121:5
It may be hard to believe but the kid’s classic, Goodnight Moon, written by Margaret Wise
Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd, has been lying around kids' bedrooms for almost sixty
years. My grandson, who wasn’t the easiest chap to get off to sleep, absolutely
loved it. Goodnight Moon is a sweet
old mood-enhancer whose magic somehow prompts delightful sleepiness.
For years, if we were out in the darkness, he'd search the sky. “Way da moon?” he’d say, as if he had to be
sure it was up there watching over us.
Maybe it’s that book that
makes me wonder about this line from psalm 121.
Goodnight Moon such a meditative
story that just thinking about it makes me want to yawn. It’s difficult for me
to remember moments in my life, or even in story, when the moon, as the
psalmist here seems to suggest, actually made me scared.
Darkness, surely. I was never quite as scared as I was one
night on the shore of Lake Michigan, when, with a couple of other boys, we were
completely lost in rolling sand dunes. Truth be known, we weren’t completely
lost—we couldn’t have been more than a quarter mile from the lake. But we were
out somewhere in the dunes—I have no idea why—when, in the darkness, we
realized we had no idea where to go to get out. I was scared witless and
spitless, even though I’m sure I never admitted it.
But I don’t remember the moon playing any role whatsoever in
that fear. Darkness lit up our nerves, sheer darkness. The moon would have been
a blessing.
To some Hindus, the moon is full of soma, an elixir of
immortality only gods can drink. For the
Fon of Abomey, in the Republic of Benin, Africa, Mawu, the goddess of the Moon,
is an old mother who lives in the West and brings with her cool temps amid
torrid summers, the goddess of night and joy and motherhood. As those t-shirts
used to proclaim: “No fear.”
One night years ago up above Chamberlain, South Dakota, a
number of us laid in the grass and watched the stars appear, the moon lighting
the world bountifully overhead. An
astronomer friend explained ancient mythologies as their stories appeared above
us—it was pure joy. On our way down the steep hill we’d climbed to get there,
the footing was treacherous because sheer darkness had arrived, even though we
hadn’t noticed it. Once, a guy fell and
rolled down a ways. That was a little scary. Thank goodness for the moon. Would
have been much tougher without it.
Werewolves wail at it, and coyotes and real wolves, for that
matter, which reminds me of an oil painting that inspired Willa Cather, in My Antonia, to tell a horrible tale
about a wedding party entirely devoured by ravenous wolves—at night, of course. But I don’t remember moonlight in that
painting. Even as a sliver, it’s hard for me to see the moon as anything but
beautiful, sleek.
I don’t know that I’ve ever been afraid of the moon, but we
all know fear, as did the psalmist. We all know the paralysis fear creates in
us, even if it arrives only in our dreams.
And we all know the terrors of the darkness, the times when
no matter what we try, we simply can’t find our way. At one time or another in
our lives, everyone knows what it’s like to wander around with no light, with
no direction, with no way home.
To those of who know that kind of loss, this psalm, Psalm
121, is special gift, a blessing. God is
watching us always, even in the dark, even in light of the moon. So, well,
Goodnight Moon.
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