There’s a moment every year when you go outside, look up, and realize something is missing.
You don’t notice it right away. The sky still looks like the sky. There are still stars, still that familiar hush that settles in after sunset. But then it hits you.
Orion is gone.
If you’ve ever learned to recognize him — really recognize him — it feels strange. His three-star belt is so steady, so easy to find, that once you know it, you start to expect it. It becomes part of your sky. Part of your rhythm.
And then one night, he’s just… not there.
But here’s the thing. Orion doesn’t actually disappear.
He just moves on.
As the seasons shift, Orion drifts lower in the evening sky, setting earlier and earlier each night. By summer, he’s still above us, still whole, still exactly where he’s always been — but now he’s rising and setting with the Sun, hidden in the daylight where we can’t see him.
Nothing about him is broken. Nothing has been lost.
He’s simply stepped out of view.
And months later, if you’re paying attention, you’ll catch him again just before dawn. Quiet. Almost shy. That same familiar line of three stars rising in the early morning sky, like a memory returning.
By winter, he’s back where he belongs — standing tall, clear and unmistakable, as if he never left at all.
The sky teaches this lesson over and over, if we’re willing to watch it.
Not everything that leaves is gone.
Not everything that disappears is lost.
Some things just move into a different part of the cycle, waiting for the right time to return.
So if there’s something in your life that feels like it’s slipped out of reach — a person, a feeling, a sense of direction — it might not be gone in the way it feels.
It may just be out of sight for now.
And like Orion, it may come back into view when the season shifts again.
Until then, the sky is still full. Still moving. Still holding more than we can see at once.
All you have to do is step outside and look up.
In Service,
Sister Bridget
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