It began as a whisper on the late-night news — a brief mention of a solar storm and a chance to see the northern lights in Minnesota. Most people would have forgotten it by morning.
But something stirred in me, a nudge that felt less like curiosity and more like invitation.

When I asked my wife if she wanted to go, she surprised me with her answer — “Sure.”
And with that one word, a small adventure began, not knowing what waited at the end of the road.

By morning, I was buried in maps, solar charts, and weather reports. I chose Caribou Lake, a quiet spot on the North Shore of Lake Superior with a public access facing north, two-hundred sixty miles from our home in the Twin Cities.

I knew it was a gamble. The forecast was poor — clouds, rain, uncertainty. We had no guarantee the skies would clear. But sometimes faith begins with a simple yes.

So, we packed and left after my wife got home from work, heading north toward Lake Superior. As miles turned into hours, the sky stayed heavy and gray. I kept glancing west, searching for any hint of clearing, but the heavens remained silent.

By the time we turned off the main highway onto a narrow forest road, night had fallen. The rain had stopped, clouds of steam rose from the warm wet pavement, glowing in the headlights like ghosts of the road ahead. There were no sounds but the hum of tires and our own thoughts.

When we overshot our turn, I felt the familiar weight of disappointment — another plan unraveling. I slowed, looking for a place to turn around. Then, movement. A fox, drenched and wild-eyed, crossed in front of us, paused, and vanished back into the trees.
Something about that moment — fleeting and unplanned — felt like a whisper: You’re not lost. Just keep going.

We found the tiny sign for the public access, nearly hidden in the dark. We were the only ones there. I parked and walked to the shore. The still surface of Caribou Lake, with pines mirrored in its quiet waters, felt mesmerizing. Overhead the clouds had begun to thin, with a few stars hear and there breaking through like pinholes of promise. Even if the clouds lingered, I thought, maybe this was enough, spending a quiet night by a still lake.

By the time I got back to the car my wife had already settled into her sleeping bag in the back of the SUV. I joined her while I waited for the skies to clear. Something stirred me awake near midnight. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and stepped out into the chill night air–and gasped.

The clouds were gone, and thousands of stars filled the skies. I grabbed my camera and tripod, and quickly made my way down to the shore.

I stood in silence, barely breathing. It was as if heaven itself had drawn back a veil. Pillars of green and violet shimmered and danced, rippling across the sky like living breath.

The camera clicked softly beside me, but this was more than photographs – it was worship. It felt as if the Lord had led me to this very place, at this very moment, to remind me of His glory – unseen yet ever present.

For the next four hours, I photographed what words could never fully capture. The lights shimmered and danced, rippling as though a divine hand was stirring them. Time dissolved. The silence of the forest, the distant cry of a wolf—all felt woven into a single act of worship.

It was not just light in the sky; it was the whisper of eternity–God painting the night with His glory, reminding me that even in the darkest hours, His presence is alive and moving.

When dawn finally came, the colors faded to gray, and I returned to the car. My wife stirred and whispered, half-awake, “Did you see anything?”

I smiled, unable to speak.

Because what I saw was not just light in the sky — it was the holiness of God, painted across the heavens. A reminder that sometimes the road to light is long and uncertain, but the One who guides it knows exactly when to pull back the curtain.