The point wasn’t to know exactly how many stars were on the ceiling of my childhood church. We counted the stars to pass time, to keep ourselves occupied during the homily, to grapple with the unknown.

I always knew I’d grow up and learn multiplication, and once I was full of knowledge, I’d number the stars. But when I did grow up, I lost that naive sense of wonder: wonder at how many stars the ceiling held and wonder at wisdom the future held.

I know calculus and trigonometry, mathematics far more complex than multiplication. I know the number of stars on the ceiling. 120. But every time I rest in a creaky old pew, I count the stars.

I know... I’m not at all naive– but I wonder.