Grand Canyon

Nancy and I got to visit the Grand Canyon recently. As we walked and drove along the south rim, we started talking about just how grand it actually is. It's vastness is so overwhelming, it's hard for your brain to process all that your eyes are absorbing.

So we started trying to come up with words to describe it. We decided "big," "really big" and "really, really big" didn't quite do it. At one particular overlook, there was just one other couple when we walked up. As usual, as we got to the edge, a reflexive "Wow" fell out of our mouths.

"Yes," said the lady. "It's inexhaustible."

I was so impressed with her wordsmithing and frustrated mine had been bested by this little old lady. The word that suits the Grand Canyon is inexhaustible.

Except it isn't. It's not even the biggest canyon in our solar system.

This awe-inspiring geologic wonder makes us feel so small and insignificant, we begin to ponder life, creation and God. And it's not even noticeable when we begin to look at the universe. The earth is minuscule compared to the sun, which is a measly little star.

Somehow, I think David understood this. I think, one night, watching sheep, laying on a hilltop outside Bethlehem, he drank in the stars from horizon to horizon, was consumed by wonder and said, "What is man that you are mindful of him? The son of man that you care for him?"

What I love about his words is they speak two fundamental truths. We seem to be frightfully insignificant. God loves us anyway.

The universe is filled with incomprehensible wonders. You are the one God sees. You are the relationship he longs to redeem. You are the one he loves, with a love that is truly inexhaustible. You.

Flashes of Light

I was sitting in an offsite meeting last week, in a room with a huge window. It looked out on the Air Force Academy with Pikes Peak towering behind. As I was soaking in the view I saw a faint flicker.

The weird thing about the flicker was it didn't seem to belong. We're used to lights blinking at the tops of radio towers as they jut into the sky. But this light seemed to be on the side of the hill, in a grove of trees. Slowly, methodically, incessantly blinking.

As I sat there, it started to drive me crazy. What's it doing there? The location doesn't make sense. What purpose could it possibly serve? On a break I started asking people. I showed David. He couldn't figure it out. I told Jon. He said, "Yeah, it's always there. I don't know why."

I couldn't wait until Sunday. Two young men, who attend the Academy, go to our church. I asked them. They didn't know what I was talking about. "You know, we have 18,000 acres, right?"

I STILL don't know why that stinking light is there.

As I watched the light blinking I began to wonder. What if I lived my life that way? What if I lived in a way that flashed light in unexpected places? What if my kindness caused confusion. If my love for people was bewildering. If my actions caused people to ask, "Where does that light come from?"

I'm going to continue to look for the source of the light. The questions it created in me compel me to keep looking. My hope is, my life will do the same for others.