They say that you can instantly tell who the tourists are in any city by noticing who is looking up and who is looking down. The residents of the bustling metropolis have seen all the sights a million times, and their faces are firmly positioned down as they hurry off to wherever they are going for the millionth and first time. But the tourists are looking up. The signs, the buildings, the skyline, it is all new and wondrous to them. That’s why they came after all, isn’t it? To see the sights? Whenever I was in New York singing I would remember this and try to keep myself from admiring the marvels all around me in an attempt to remain unmugged.
But here, at home, when I should be looking at my feet or my phone, I can’t stop looking up. They just put a new steeple on top of the next church over, replacing the one that was lost a few years ago in a fire. The leaves are performing their annual color run, and the trees shed them with grace and beauty. And my own steeple attached to my own church attached to my own home, I see it every time I come or go. I love to just look up at it and see.
I don’t know why I never stopped looking up. Maybe someday I will. Maybe that steeple, and those leaves, and all of the other buildings will eventually stop holding wonder for me. But I hope not. Because I’ve seen the ground, and all the things that happen on it, and how can it ever hope to compete with the sky?