Here are a couple of Psalms and then a story they led me to write. I hope they and it gives you pause to think about the world we live in and the God who created it.
Psalm 24 tells us that God owns the world for He is the one who created it. Not only did He create the world, He created everything in it. Most wonderfully, He created man.
We hear people saying there is no God, and everything just happened. We read in Psalm 14:1, The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.”
The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it;
for he founded it on the seas
and established it on the waters.
Psalm 24:1-3
Praise the Lord.
Praise the Lord from the heavens;
praise him in the heights above.
Praise him, all his angels;
praise him, all his heavenly hosts.
Praise him, sun and moon;
praise him, all you shining stars.
Praise him, you highest heavens
and you waters above the skies.
Let them praise the name of the Lord,
for at his command they were created,
and he established them for ever and ever—
he issued a decree that will never pass away.
Psalm 148:1-6
Romans 1 tells us that the creation itself demonstrates that there is a God. There is design in everything we see in this world. Design demands a designer. We have no problem looking at artificial flowers and saying someone designed them and someone made them. When it comes to the universe, we say that this great thing just happened – no design, no designer. It came from nothing and created itself.
Ah, but the very design tells us that’s a lie. So, what should we do?
Psalm 148 above shows us the most natural response to God as Creator—Praise the Lord!
Creation is a wonderful gift, and the more we learn about it, the more we realize how far beyond us it is. Yet God invites us to explore, to discover, to imagine.
The little boy in the story below is an example of just such discovery. Think back—can you remember the first time you plucked a mature dandelion?
THE DANDELION
The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Spring warmth filled the air, greeting the little boy as though the day itself had opened its arms to him. The boy, playing alone in his yard, noticed a dandelion that had finished blooming and turned white. It stood slightly apart from the others, its round head full and pale, as if it were holding its breath. Curious, he knelt and plucked it from the ground, careful not to crush it. Somehow, knowing instinctively that it was very delicate, he gently lifted it close to his face.
Up close, the seeds looked impossibly soft and fragile. Each one balanced on a thin stem, crowned with a soft halo. He turned it slowly between his fingers, studying how perfectly they fit together, how they seemed to be waiting.
A breeze moved through the yard then, light but certain, as if calling. The dandelion appeared to answer it. Several of the tiny parachutes loosened and lifted away, slipping free without a sound. The boy’s eyes widened. He laughed and brought the stem to his mouth, blowing gently, then harder, learning quickly of the power of the wind. The remaining seeds scattered, rising and drifting, each one choosing its own path.
He ran after them, barefoot through the grass, craning his neck as they floated ahead of him. Some fell quickly, settling into the yard, one or two clung to his shirt. Others were caught by the wind and carried higher, beyond his reach. He followed as far as he could, watching them become smaller and smaller, imagining where they might land—on rooftops, in faraway fields, somewhere he had never been.
When he finally stopped running, his breath quick and warm in his chest, he looked down at his hand. The stem was bare. The perfect white globe was gone, leaving only a thin green stalk between his fingers.
He stood still for a moment longer than necessary, turning the stem slightly, as if checking it from every angle. The wind moved on without him. Somewhere, the last of the seeds disappeared from sight.
He found himself wishing that one had stayed.
The boy did not say anything. He only stood there in the yard, holding the empty stem, turning it slightly between his fingers, as if checking it from every angle. The wind moved on without him. Somewhere beyond the fences and rooftops, the last of the seeds disappeared from sight.
For the first time, the quiet felt different.
What had been full was now gone. What had been perfect was now scattered. The thin green stalk seemed almost unfinished, as though it had not yet decided what it was meant to be without its crown.
The boy wondered—only briefly—if he had ruined it.
Then he noticed something else.
The yard was still there. The wind was still moving. And somewhere, far beyond where he could follow, the seeds were settling into places he would never see. He imagined them touching the ground softly, finding small pockets of earth, waiting through days and nights he would not know.
The thought surprised him. What if letting go was not the end of the dandelion’s story, but the way it continued?
He closed his fingers around the stem once more, then let it fall from his hand. It landed quietly at his feet, already beginning to belong again to the ground.
The boy stood there a moment longer, feeling the breeze brush his face, sensing—though he could not have said how—that some things are never meant to be kept whole. Some things exist to be released. And sometimes, the empty hand is not a loss, but a beginning.
He turned then and walked back toward the house, leaving the yard open behind him.
The wind kept moving.