And today I think first of my nose, which I tend to address in diminutives when — like today — it is raw and red and chapped with too much wiping. (Yes, I have a cold. And, no, I don’t tend to address my nose, most of the time.)
I took my camera out to visit the daffodils this morning and was glad to be alive on this February Saturday, with oblique sunshine and just enough breeze to keep me glad of my jacket.
All this great world of ours, the tremendous fact of being alive, vast purposes and causes and upheavals, all pieced together of the small steps, the small words: noses, and daffodils, chilly fingers on personal keyboards, and smiles tossed in passing across the sidewalk.
There’s the small of Moses tending Jethro’s flocks in Midian, all unsuspicious of the call which would come to him from a bush which burned but was not consumed. The small of Elizabeth living with Zacharias in in faithful barrenness. The small of a mother who packed five loaves and two fish for her little boy’s lunch. The small of Job, sitting in an ash heap, scraping his sores with a broken piece of pottery.
We know that God is large. We see the universe of his creating, see how high and far and powerful is he.
When Moses visited the Israelites, they believed in God when they saw the wonders he had given Moses to perform. But “when they heard that the LORD had visited the people of Israel and that he had seen their affliction” — THEN — “they bowed their heads and worshiped” (Exodus 4:31).
This large God entered our small, suffered the indignities of chapped noses and chilly fingers, visited us and knows our affliction: he has borne our griefs, carried our sorrows, been tempted in every way as we are. This, this should lead us to worship.
Joining Lisa-Jo and friends today to write on her prompt, “small.” Read more posts and join in yourself using the button above!