DanWilt.com :: spiritual storytelling, keeping faith

Tonight has been a night of recovering memories. Star Hill is one of those memories.

We are visiting my family in south central Pennsylvania, and a window opened for my 13 year old son and I to travel around the town, visiting all my old stomping grounds as a young man.

Tonight, my son and I played football where I played as a child, visited the sledding spot famous in my hometown (the infamous Adelia Hill), and drove by my grandparents home where I long ago sat on a porch listening to my dying Grandpa teach me the real story on life.

Then, we went to Star Hill. Star Hill is a small hill behind my parents home where I spent much of my childhood, lying on my back, staring at the stars. On Spring, Summer and Autumn nights I would escape to my little hill, lie on my back as the stars began to appear, and imagine myself visiting those stars, galaxies, and planets. I would stay for hours at a time, often until I heard my mother’s voice call me inside.

Tonight, my son laid beside me. We talked about ancient things, like light, and hope, and God and family. The wind whipped at us, and he laughed at silly things like the football that was my pillow, and the unmanned sleds that speckled the bottom of Star Hill.

The light of the stars met the light in us again, and now, in my son. It is my gift to pass on the story of Star Hill to him, and his gift to me to wonder again on its slope.