I am already old enough that I can walk on the Oregon beach, full of my own thoughts and concerns, and fail to notice the crash of the waves on the sand, the rushing of the wind above the sea, the whirling of sea birds with their fretful calling. I have seen and heard these things many times, and it is strange how the beauty of our favorite things can become lost in simple familiarity.
But each time when I hold the tiny hand of my daughter (or rather, she clutches one of my fingers), her presence shakes the familiar back into shades of wonder. It isn't quite that I am experiencing them anew. Rather, I am captured by a new, higher joy: I have been granted the supreme privilege of introducing her to things which have brought me wonder, and the still greater joy of seeing her eyes widen, her mouth fall open in awe at the simple beauty of the ocean's pulsing waves, the roar of the wind, the call of the birds
It is a new world of joy to be a father. What higher joy is there that could best the curl of her cold, wet hand around one of my fingers, her not knowing which way to run next, each step carrying her into the world of God's majestic creation?
But each time when I hold the tiny hand of my daughter (or rather, she clutches one of my fingers), her presence shakes the familiar back into shades of wonder. It isn't quite that I am experiencing them anew. Rather, I am captured by a new, higher joy: I have been granted the supreme privilege of introducing her to things which have brought me wonder, and the still greater joy of seeing her eyes widen, her mouth fall open in awe at the simple beauty of the ocean's pulsing waves, the roar of the wind, the call of the birds
It is a new world of joy to be a father. What higher joy is there that could best the curl of her cold, wet hand around one of my fingers, her not knowing which way to run next, each step carrying her into the world of God's majestic creation?
No comments:
Post a Comment