The young boy tugged at the elderly woman's apron string. He held up one finger. "How big is God's love?" she asked, taking his hand.
She pointed up. The young boy tilted his head back. Stars were scattered across the sky like tiny pinpricks of light. "More than I can count," he whispered.
They walked past the chapel and down toward the river. The young boy kicked a pebble along the path as they went.
At the river, the young boy dropped a twig into the water. He watched it spin and tumble, carried farther and farther until it disappeared around the bend.
The twig tumbled and spun, caught in the current, sliding away around the bend until it was gone.
Grandma stopped at the edge of the field and spread her arms wide. The last gold rays of sunlight touched everything.
The sunlight touched the chapel roof and the green hills and the young boy's own outstretched fingers — everywhere at once.
The young boy stood still in the field. He thought: God's love is like this light. It doesn't stop. It reaches everywhere.
The young boy looked up again. The sky was wide and dark and full of stars.
"Endless," he whispered. He smiled as fireflies began to glow around them in the growing night.
The elderly woman sat beside the young boy on the grass, pointing at a bright star. They watched it together.
The young boy rested his head against the elderly woman's shoulder. He knew. God's love was bigger than the stars, bigger than the river, bigger than everything.