Going Deeper Under a Darkened Sky

There is something humbling about admitting you haven’t gone far enough. Not geographically — though sometimes that too — but spiritually, attentively, terrestrially.

This winter I added a new tool to my life: a 2025 Ford Bronco. And before that sentence lands wrong, let me say plainly — this isn’t about horsepower or chrome. It isn’t about acquisition. It’s about access.

There are ridgelines I have not yet stood on. Forest roads I have not yet driven. Trailheads that require a little more clearance, a little more steadiness… a little more willingness to leave the pavement behind.

The Bronco, for me, is not a symbol of arrival. It is a commitment to go deeper. Deeper into the quiet coves of Appalachia. Deeper into early morning frost and late evening birdsong. Deeper into places where cell service fades and attention sharpens.

Creation is generous beyond measure. But we often skim its surface. We hike the loop. We stay near the parking lot. We keep one eye on the clock. And yet, if Deep Calls to Deep has taught me anything, it is this: The earth listens. So do we.

Remember: This month the sky gives us a chance to wonder

Last post we reflected on the 1977 New York City blackout — how, in the sudden absence of artificial light, many residents saw the Milky Way for the first time. In the midst of chaos, there was wonder. Darkness revealed what brightness had concealed.

In the early morning hours of March 3rd, 2026, we will be given another invitation. A full Blood Moon lunar eclipse will unfold in the pre-dawn sky.

During a total lunar eclipse, the earth moves directly between the sun and the moon. Our planet casts its shadow across the lunar surface, and instead of disappearing, the moon glows — copper, crimson, ember-red.

It is not apocalyptic. It is astronomical. It is the geometry of grace. The same planet we walk upon — the same soil beneath our boots and tires — becomes the very thing that paints the moon red. Think about that. The ground beneath us is part of the sky above us.

When we step outside that morning, wrapped in blankets or leaning against a truck hood or standing barefoot in the dew, we will be witnessing something both ancient and entirely present. No subscription required. No admission fee.

Just participation. There is a difference between controlling the world and being contained within it. Control is anxious. Containment is peaceful. When the moon turns red, nothing is wrong. The heavens are not unraveling. They are aligning.

The eclipse reminds us that shadow is not the enemy of light. It is part of an ancient choreography. And perhaps this is what our age needs most: reminders that darkness does not mean disaster. Silence does not mean absence. Slowness does not mean stagnation.

Under a darkened sky, our nervous system recalibrates. We remember scale. We remember rhythm. We remember that the cosmos is not frantic. And neither must we be.

On March 3rd, set your alarm a little early. Drive out past the streetlights if you can. Pull over on a ridge. Stand in a field. Sit on the tailgate of whatever carries you deeper. Look up. Let the shadow fall. Let the red rise. Let your breath slow.

Deep Calls to Deep is not about escaping the world. It is about entering it more fully — with steadiness, with awe, with the quiet confidence that God has already given us everything we need to live a calm, non-anxious life. The earth is generous, she is enough. The sky is faithful and it points us to faithfulness. The shadow passes, like all shadows do: they leave an impression, a deep one even, but the light always returns. Our task is only to learn what the shadow is teaching, what God is teaching as we pass through penumbra and darkness.

And there is always more to discover if we are willing to go deeper.