Last week, now older, I did the same thing as a Falcon 9 climbed into the heavens. The fire was familiar. The sky still opened, but the awe, the awe had changed. Awe in youth says, look how big the world is. Awe in age says, look how precious. Both are gifts, but the second one, the seasoned awe, it stays with you. It settles in your bones and it whispers not just of rockets and sky, but of grace, of wonder, and the sacred ache to keep reaching upward.
So I hope for you that you don't wait for fire in the sky. Awe is not rare, it's just quiet. It lives in the way sunlight rests on the kitchen table, in the hush before someone says, I'm glad you're here, and the way your chest rises and falls without you asking it to. Let that be enough. Let it move you. Let it remind you that awe is not only for the extraordinary, it is woven into the ordinary, waiting to be noticed. This is Dr. Scott Morris for Church Health.
