By Louise R. Shaw

The smoke had cleared after a hazy day and the stars were out.

The little kids were in bed so us big kids got the lawn chairs together on the back deck and put them in the reclining positions so we could watch the sky.

It was a night that shooting stars were expected and there was a new moon so the sky was dark and we were in a rural area of central Oregon so we hoped to spot a falling star or two.

Somebody saw one here, somebody else saw one way over there.

And then the biggest, brightest meteor any of us had ever seen went arching across the sky just over our heads and we all let out a collective whoop of aahs that surely woke the neighbors but that's OK because they they could come out and watch too.

It was a moment to tuck in your pocket and carry around with you.

Just a week later I was gazing into the eyes of a baby just one week old. A grandson born to one of my sons and his wife.

No doubt in the world that babies are work. You have to figure out how to make them happy, how to keep them comfortable. How to meet their needs when they have only one way to communicate and it isn't always a way we understand. And then there are the siblings. And the dishes. And the laundry.

Parenting is work and I was there to try and ease the load for a stretch, but things were quiet at that particular moment and this little guy and I had some time together.

I gazed into his eyes and he gazed right back into my eyes. And we connected.

Sixty-plus years between us. Experiences of all kinds behind me, experiences beyond imagining ahead for him.

But though we couldn't talk, we could communicate.

It was a moment.

And like the first one, it came as I was sitting quietly and looking. At the sky, and my new grandson.

And it makes me think that maybe it is a good thing to sit quietly and look.

All too often, days and hours and minutes are filled with movement. Lots of it.

Some of it we have to do. Some of it we choose to do.

But sometimes maybe there's so much moving and running and accomplishing that you just might, maybe, miss something.

It's why I never open a book at the beach.

I know, books and beaches are supposed to go together. But how can you look at a book when there are waves crashing earby? And people playing. And maybe turtles swimming. And maybe rainbows forming. And clouds changing.

The book will be there later.

And so will the bed. And the dishes. And the laundry.

Sometimes you just have to sit and look at the stars. Sometimes you just have to sit and look at the baby.

Sometimes you just have to sit and look.

This column was first printed in the Davis Clipper of Davis County, Utah on October 18, 2018.