Book of Beauty

I set comfortably on my front porch on my antique wooden swing that has held so many traveling souls throughout the years. I ponder the lives that the swing has held in the palm of its hand. I idolize the florescent sun as it shines unconditional loving rays of light to a troubled world. I hear the chirping love-birds as they dance through the air and the melodic wind chimes singing on neighborhood porches. I realize the beauty and the love in their tones. It seems as if it can only be God's artwork. I feel my niece tugging at my worn purple sweater to come play with her and pull her in her little red wagon down to the old apple tree by the creek. I love her more than anything, smile adoringly at her, and take her. As we pass houses, I glance at the elderly couple, in their straw hats and overalls, planting cherry tomatoes across the road,ice tea crackling on their front porch that holds wisdom filled friends, skins soaked with sun block, canes at their sides, happy as can be. When the day turns to night, I am in awe of a sky filled with sparkling stars and I feel so puzzled to think of all that the universe holds: the purple and red and blue and yellow galaxies that seem to only be displayed for us in books of beauty but too far for us to ever reach or be a part of. Then, when I travel the Earth, my favorite thing I can do, I pass the snow-capped mountains with daffodils at their bases, the turquoise oceans that seem to never end, the fields of colored fruit trees, and all the many wonders of our gigantic world, and I feel that this could all only be the artwork of God, and although I am puzzled, I am so thankful. Yet, why, I wonder, do I feel so all alone when their is this canvas full of miracles for me to explore, for all of us to explore? I feel endlessly restricted, a speck in this book of beauty. I think I am envious, that if there is a God, that this God gets to experience it all, at the same time. I just feel so small.