Listen to the audio version of this article (generated by AI).
What the jogger missed, and what it means to look up
A near-miss with a moose is a reminder that most of us move through the world with our heads down.
By Tracy Simmons | FāVS News Editor
The views expressed in this opinion column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the views of FāVS News.
I’ve seen the same man jog the path between Moscow and Pullman often. He keeps his head down, eyes on his feet, earbuds in, working through whatever a run is meant to work through.
Recently, driving by, I watched a moose trot toward him — not a distant shape or a blur in the trees, but heading straight for him, on a collision course with his path. I held my breath, worried for him.
Then, at the last second, the moose cut sideways and disappeared over a hill.
The jogger never looked up. He missed all of it — the size of the animal, the strange grace of it changing direction, the fact that for about four seconds, something enormous and wild was closer to him than it will probably ever be again.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot.
It’s not that he was careless. It’s that most of us move through the world this way — head down, managing the ground right in front of us, trusting that whatever matters will announce itself. I keep wondering how much has trotted toward me, or past me, while I was looking at my feet.
What the texts say
Every tradition I’ve ever reported on seems to know this about people. We default to looking down. But the texts, again and again, tell us to look up.
The Book of Isaiah (40:26) says: “Lift up your eyes on high and see: Who created these?” It’s an instruction. Stop. Tilt your head back. Look at the sky and let it ask you a question.
The Quran does something similar, pointing first to something close and familiar before moving outward to the sky itself: “Do they not look at the camels, how they are created? And at the sky, how it is raised?” — Quran 88:17-18. Look at what’s near you first. Then look up.
The Bhagavad Gita (7:8) takes a different approach. Instead of pointing at the sky, it says the divine is already in what you’re looking at, if you look closely enough: “I am the taste in water, the light in the sun and the moon.” Not out there, beyond us, but inside the ordinary thing already in front of us.
And the Psalms go a step further: “The heavens are telling the glory of God.” The sky itself becomes a text. Something to read, if we’re willing to look at it.
Different traditions, different reasons to lift our eyes — with the same basic instruction. Look up. Something is happening that you cannot see from where you’re staring.
So what do I see when I look up?
Looking up on the Palouse
Some days, not much. A gray Palouse sky, wheat fields, the same drive I’ve made a hundred times. But some days — like the day of the moose — I see something that reorders the rest of my afternoon. A reminder that I share this stretch of road, this valley, with more than I usually account for.
I don’t have a tidy spiritual practice to offer you here, no five-step plan. Just this: today, on your drive, your walk, your run — look up once. Not for long. Just long enough to see what’s been moving toward you the whole time.
FāVS News uses professional journalists and thoughtful commentary to explore faith, values and ethics. Support journalism like this by making a tax-deductible donation. FāVS is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. © FāVS News. All rights reserved. Reproduction permitted only to authorized media partners or with written permission.
