The Lost Art of Wonder: Why Children See the World Better Than Adults Do
It is a curious thing, when you come to think of it, that we spend the first years of our lives learning to be grown-ups, and the rest of our lives forgetting how to be children. We begin in a state of wide-eyed wonder, marveling at every leaf and pebble, and end in a state of weary wisdom, barely noticing the sun rising or setting. It is as if we start out seeing the world as it truly is - a place of magic and miracle - and gradually train ourselves to see it as a dull, gray place of routine and responsibility. But what if, as our Lord suggested, the children have it right all along?
The modern world, in its great sophistication, has decided that wonder is childish. It has determined that awe is primitive, that amazement is unsophisticated. It prefers cynicism to surprise, skepticism to astonishment. It has, in short, grown old before its time, and in doing so, has missed the whole point. For the point, as every child knows instinctively, is not to explain the wonder away, but to revel in it. The point is not to dissect the butterfly, but to delight in its flight. The point is not to analyze the rainbow, but to gasp at its beauty.
Consider the matter of fireworks. To a child, they are nothing short of miraculous - fire that flies, stars that fall, heaven itself seeming to shatter into a thousand glorious fragments. To an adult, they are a mere chemical reaction, a predictable result of certain elements combined in certain ways. The child sees magic; the adult sees mechanics. And which, I ask you, is closer to the truth?
For what are fireworks, really, but the night sky's attempt at rivalry with the day? They are the darkness trying to outshine the light, and in doing so, revealing the glory of both. They are a reminder that even in the blackest night, there can be moments of dazzling brilliance. Is this not, in its way, a perfect metaphor for the Christian life? We are called to be lights in the darkness, to shine with a brightness that defies the gloom around us. And like fireworks, our light may be brief, but it should be brilliant.
But let us not stop at fireworks. Let us consider the humble sparkler, that miniature firework that delights children at 4th of July parties and summer evenings. What is a sparkler but a stick that has learned to catch fire without being consumed? Is it not, in its way, a tiny echo of the burning bush that Moses saw? And is not every child who waves a sparkler, tracing patterns of light in the darkness, participating in a small way in the great work of creation, when God said "Let there be light"?
And yet, we grown-ups, in our wisdom, see only fire hazards and potential burns. We have lost the ability to see the magic in the mundane, the miracle in the everyday. We have forgotten how to wonder.
But let us move from the man-made marvels to the natural wonders. What of waterfalls? A child sees in them the very power of creation unleashed, a constant cataract of creation pouring forth from some hidden source. An adult sees erosion patterns and hydroelectric potential. The child hears the voice of God in the thunder of the falls; the adult hears only white noise.
But consider: is not a waterfall the perfect image of grace? It pours forth constantly, abundantly, without stint or stop. It cannot be exhausted or diminished by our use of it. It fills every empty space, shapes itself to every contour, and in doing so, gradually reshapes the very landscape. It is beautiful in sunlight and powerful in shadow. It can refresh the weary traveler or sweep away the unwary fool. In short, it is everything that divine grace is - and we, like children, should stand before it in awe.
And yet, how many of us, when faced with a waterfall, think first of taking a picture rather than simply standing in wonder? We have become so concerned with capturing the moment that we forget to experience it. We are so busy being tourists in our own lives that we forget to be pilgrims.
But let us not stop at grand waterfalls. Let us consider the humble raindrop, that miniature waterfall that delights children puddle-jumping after a storm. What is a raindrop but a tiny piece of the ocean that has learned to fly? Is it not, in its way, a small miracle of levitation? And is not every child who catches a raindrop on their tongue participating in a small way in the great work of creation, when God separated the waters above from the waters below?
And yet, we grown-ups, in our wisdom, see only inconvenience and wet clothes. We have lost the ability to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, the sublime in the simple. We have forgotten how to wonder.
The truth is, the world is no less wonderful for being familiar. A seed sprouting is no less miraculous for happening every spring. A baby's first laugh is no less delightful for being heard in every home. The stars are no less vast and mysterious for being always above us. It is not the world that has lost its wonder; it is we who have lost our capacity to wonder.
Consider the humble dandelion. To a child, it is a golden treasure, a miniature sun that can be picked and held, a magical lamp that can grant wishes when blown. To an adult, it is a weed, a nuisance to be eradicated from well-manicured lawns. The child sees beauty and possibility; the adult sees only inconvenience and imperfection.
But what is a dandelion, really, but a testament to the stubborn persistence of life? It grows where it is not wanted, blooms where it is not planted, thrives where it is not tended. It turns its face to the sun in joyful worship, then scatters its seeds to the wind in an act of faithful abandonment. Is it not, in its way, the perfect emblem of the Christian life? We too are called to bloom where we are planted, to persist in the face of adversity, to worship joyfully and scatter the seeds of faith widely.
And yet, we grown-ups, in our wisdom, see only a threat to our perfectly ordered worlds. We have lost the ability to see the lesson in the lowly, the sermon in the simple. We have forgotten how to wonder.
But let us move from the earthly to the celestial. What of the stars? A child sees in them a vast cosmic playground, a glittering canopy stretched over the earth, a million distant lanterns lit by unseen hands. An adult sees balls of gas burning billions of miles away, their light reaching us years after the star itself may have died.
But consider: is not the night sky the perfect image of eternity? Vast beyond our comprehension, yet somehow intimate and personal. Distant and unreachable, yet guiding and orienting. Unchanging in its patterns, yet ever-changing in its nightly dance. It is everything that eternity is - and we, like children, should gaze up at it in wonder.
And yet, how many of us, when faced with a starry sky, think first of light pollution or astronomical calculations? We have become so concerned with explaining the cosmos that we forget to be awed by it. We are so busy being scientists that we forget to be stargazers.
But let us not stop at the stars. Let us consider the humble firefly, that earthbound star that delights children on summer evenings. What is a firefly but a tiny piece of the night sky that has learned to fly? Is it not, in its way, a small miracle of bioluminescence? And is not every child who chases fireflies participating in a small way in the great work of creation, when God said "Let there be lights in the vault of the sky"?
And yet, we grown-ups, in our wisdom, see only insects and inconvenience. We have lost the ability to see the celestial in the commonplace, the stellar in the small. We have forgotten how to wonder.
And here is the great paradox: it is only by becoming like children that we can truly grow up. It is only by recovering our sense of wonder that we can gain true wisdom. For what is wisdom, really, but the ability to see things as they truly are? And things as they truly are are wonderful, miraculous, shot through with the glory of God.
This is not to say that knowledge is bad, or that science is the enemy of wonder. Far from it! The more we know about the cosmos, the more wonderful it becomes. The more we understand about the intricacies of life, the more miraculous it appears. The problem is not that we know too much, but that we feel too little. We have gained information, but lost astonishment.
And so, we must become like children again. We must relearn the art of wonder. We must practice the discipline of delight. We must train ourselves to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, the miraculous in the mundane.
For in doing so, we are not retreating from reality, but advancing towards it. We are not turning our backs on truth, but facing it full on. We are seeing the world as it really is - a place of wonder and mystery, a place where every bush is burning with the fire of God, if we only have eyes to see.
Consider the humble act of waking up. To a child, each morning is a new adventure, a fresh page in the story of their life. To an adult, it is often a grudging surrender to necessity, a reluctant re-entry into the world of responsibilities and routines.
But what is waking up, really, but a daily resurrection? Each night, we lie down in darkness, unconscious, defenseless, as close to death as we will come until we die. And each morning, we rise again, our minds and bodies renewed, given another day of life as a free gift. Is this not a miracle? Is this not something to wonder at?
And yet, we grown-ups, in our wisdom, see only another day of work, another set of tasks to be completed. We have lost the ability to see the profound in the prosaic, the extraordinary in the everyday. We have forgotten how to be amazed at the very fact of our own existence.
In the end, it is not the child who is naive, but the adult who has lost the ability to be amazed. It is not the one who marvels who is immature, but the one who has forgotten how to marvel. For as our Lord said, it is to such as these - the wide-eyed, the open-hearted, the wonder-filled - that the kingdom of heaven belongs.
So let us be childlike in our wonder, mature in our wisdom, and Christlike in our love. Let us see each sunrise as if it were the first, each face as if it were unique (which, of course, it is), each moment as pregnant with possibility. For in doing so, we will not only enrich our lives, but we will glorify the God who made all things and pronounced them very good.
Let us look at the world with the eyes of a child - not to escape reality, but to see it more clearly. Not to avoid responsibility, but to respond more fully to the wonder of existence. Not to remain immature, but to grow into the full stature of our humanity, which is to stand in awe before the mystery of being.
For the world is full of wonders, if we only have eyes to see. It is bursting with miracles, if we only have hearts to receive them. It is overflowing with grace, if we only have hands open to accept it.
In the final analysis, the choice is simple: we can be sophisticated and bored, or simple and amazed. We can be grown-up and gray, or childlike and colorful. We can trudge through a world of dull facts, or dance through a wonderland of bright truths.
As for me, I choose wonder. I choose amazement. I choose to see the world through the eyes of a child - which are, after all, the eyes God gave us in the first place. For it is only with such eyes that we can truly see the kingdom of heaven, which is, as every child knows and every adult forgets, right here among us, if we only have eyes to see.
So let us wonder. Let us marvel. Let us be astonished at the gift of life, at the beauty of creation, at the miracle of existence. Let us recover the childlike ability to be surprised by joy, to be ambushed by grace, to be overwhelmed by love.
For in the end, it is not the cynic who sees clearly, but the child. It is not the skeptic who understands deeply, but the one who stands in awe. It is not the sophisticated who grasps the truth, but the simple.
And so, let us become like children again. Let us recover our capacity for wonder. For in doing so, we may find that we have stumbled upon the secret of life itself - to see the world as God sees it, shot through with glory, pregnant with possibility, overflowing with grace.
And in that wonder, we may find not only joy, but wisdom. Not only delight, but truth. Not only amazement, but love. For to see the world with wonder is to see it as it truly is - a gift, a miracle, a sacrament of the divine presence.
And that, after all, is what it means to be truly grown up.
- The Seeker's Quill
