in which I lift up my eyes

“Heights were made to be looked at, not to be looked from. . . . Humility is the mother of giants. One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak.”
–G. K. Chesterton, Father Brown

I ask you to think about it. Only think about it.

Me? I agree easily with Gilbert Keith.  I don’t like heights. When my dad and brothers climb to the tops of things, I stay on the ground with my mother, content to see the tops from afar.  I haven’t any desire to ever be in outer space, but I love to look at the stars.

The grand thing is to be small and to know it.  To be able to lift up your eyes to the hills because they are larger than you, because they represent the sure help of the One who made heaven and earth, hills and stars. To consider the heavens, and to marvel that that One  who ordained moon and stars takes thought of man.

But there’s this: in the smallness, to not be overwhelmed. To not, though unable to number the stars, give up looking at them. To keep looking at the heights. Because if I don’t, I risk thinking that the anthills at my feet are mountains and I am the giant.  And the truth is, I’m not.

One thought on “in which I lift up my eyes

  1. I think heights are very dangerous. With such exposure comes the same problems ducks have at the shooting range: everyone wants a shot. Yet I seem to be called there every now and then, to sit with my head above the parapet, waiting to get it shot off. This time of year I think of the man who had a choice and went there anyway, paying the ultimate price. When we’re up there I guess it’s important not to let the power go to our head; to use our position for the good of our fellow humans, as he did.

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