When I was a young child, we lived about twenty miles from my Aunt Anna. Once in a while Daddy had to work in the evening, and Mama would put us in the car to go see our aunt. Going was great because my older sister, Nancy, sat in the front seat with Mama. As the youngest, when we all drove somewhere, I had to sit in the middle between Nancy and our brother, Buddy.

Trips to Aunt Anna’s meant I got a window seat. I remember keeping my face in the window to feel the breeze, or make foggy circles on the glass to draw in. Going to our aunt’s after supper wasn’t bad. It was light enough outside to see the rural vista sliding past. But the drives home frequently terrified me. Our car didn’t have a radio, so if Mama and Nancy weren’t talking, I felt adrift in the darkness that flooded the car, obliterating everything beyond.

But once in a while, we went to visit Aunt Anna on or near a full moon. I loved those nights! Hands gripping the door, chin on the window edge, eyes wide open, straining to capture every bit of light I could. Decades later that memory is still sharp, but now I like to think I still strain the see every bit of the Light of the World that I can.