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The Gospel in the Grass

“The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns, where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy. You care for the land and water it;
you enrich it abundantly. The streams of God are filled with water to provide the people with grain, for so you have ordained it.”
—Psalm 65:8–9

Have you ever paused to consider the wonder of the world around us?

Ants gather food for the survival of the colony. Squirrels store nuts for leaner times. Animals fatten up in summer to endure the winter. Birds fly south to escape the cold and return when the seasons shift. Wolves hunt in packs. Gazelles, though slower than cheetahs, survive most encounters. None of these creatures worry about tomorrow. They simply do what God created them to do.

Water gathers in the oceans, evaporates, rises into the atmosphere, and travels hundreds—sometimes thousands—of miles before falling back to earth. Some rain nourishes lush fields, feeding grass and wildlife. Some falls on mountains, forming streams that flow into rivers, replenishing lakes and oceans. These waters power generators, sustain aquatic life, and even fall as snow, stored for years until it melts and joins the rush toward the sea. This cycle is not random—it’s provision, ordained by God.

And then there’s us. Our bodies are miracles of growth, reproduction, and healing. A fertilized egg becomes a mature adult—how? We may understand the biology, but the mystery remains. Who imagined white blood cells—those microscopic soldiers that defend us from infection? Who designed the eye to convert light into images the brain can interpret? How is memory stored in tissue and blood, and recalled when needed? Muscles, nerves, bones, tendons. Even our emotions remind us that we are more than flesh and bone—we are souls, designed to feel, remember, and belong.

Where do these come from? We are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Consider the rose: delicate, layered petals forming a perfect shape, surrounded by thorns. Or the wildflowers that bloom in hidden valleys—never seen by human eyes, never touched by human feet.

I once rode a tandem bicycle with a teenage girl who had recently lost her sight due to diabetes. We pedaled through rural Georgia on a charity ride. On the second day, we climbed Pine Mountain. It was Memorial Day weekend—Spring in full bloom. After a steep ascent, we came upon a valley blanketed in wildflowers of every imaginable color. It took my breath away. My partner heard my gasp and asked what I saw. I tried to describe it to her—but words failed. I struggled to describe the scene—the waves of yellow, purple, and red, the way the flowers stretched like a living quilt across the valley floor. Yet even in my stumbling description, she smiled. She believed it was beautiful, even if she couldn’t see it. I had never felt so aware of the limits of language. Trying to convey the beauty of God’s creation to someone who could no longer see it was both humbling and holy. I’ll never forget that moment.

Have you ever marveled at the deep blue of a cloudless sky? The vastness of stars at night? The endless horizon from the middle of the ocean? The grandeur of mountains and valleys in springtime?

God didn’t have to give color to flowers. Flavor to food. Or joy in friendship.
He didn’t have to provide grass for cattle. Or meat for lions. Or water for fish. Or sky for birds.
But He did. Why? Because this is His creation. And He loves what He has made.

He provides for the cattle, the fish, the birds, the creeping things. And He provides for us.
Because He loves us.

So today, pause. Step outside.
Let the breeze remind you that you are held.
Let the sky remind you that you are small—but deeply loved.
And let the rhythm of creation draw you into trust.

Prayer:
Lord, open my eyes to Your wonders. Help me to see the beauty of Your creation and remember that I am part of it. Teach me to trust You, as the birds and flowers do, and to join all creation in songs of joy. Amen.