dwarfed by the prairie
In the middle of the prairie, Lord, I am dwarfed–dwarfed by the ocean of prairie grass that separate me from civilization, dwarfed by the distant mountain islands that speckle the horizon, dwarfed by the vast sky endless above me, dwarfed by the elephant clouds constantly changing character.
Your prairie reminds me of my smallness and of your largeness, that I am the created and you are the creator. Sometimes I try to ponder the extent of your creation–the depths of the oceans, the height of the mountains, the distance between planets and stars, the minuteness of molecules. I cannot fathom the mysteries. It seems that I’m only able to comprehend small segments of your majesty at any one time and can never grasp all of it at once.
Standing in the prairie I’m aware of distance and space and that you are a God beyond distance and space. I’m aware of details like a single blade of grass and understand that you are a God of detail, numbering even the hairs on my head. Do you know how many blades of grass are in this field, Lord? Do you know their height and width? How many rocks are there on the mountain and what do each of them weigh? How many molecules of moisture cling to each other in the clouds? Only you know these things, Lord.
I stand in awe at who you are, Lord. And I kneel in humility knowing who I am. Amen.
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