Last week I stood on a beach at the Gulf of Mexico and watched the full moon hang round and pregnant in the night sky.

In front of me, the waves of the ocean splashed quietly against the sand. All around me, millions of stars twinkled while a few children scampered and played in the dark.

I heard my own kids giggle and laugh but I was somewhere else.

As I stood there, I thought about God.

I looked skyward and wondered what type of being could spin oceans and stars and moons — even sand — into existence.

I wondered how this world, this solid round globe that we call home, can hang in the sky, spin around the sun and serve as a home for billions of souls.

I wondered why I’m here.

I wondered about my connection to God and about my existence on Earth.

I kept asking those questions, but, honestly, I still don’t have the answer, but I kept asking.

As I stood there in awe, my youngest son squirmed in my arms. I’m not sure, but I think the waves and smell of the ocean and the night frightened him.

He seemed uncomfortable, uneasy.

I pulled him close and, softly, he laid his tiny head on my shoulders. He wrapped his small arms around me and, after a few minutes, was asleep.

And for a few minutes, Zach and I were in perfect harmony with the rest of God’s creation. There was no war, no hunger, no hatred—no pain.

There was, simply, peace.

But that moment, like so many other moments in my life, slipped away, and my son and I returned to the present.