God’s Grace Is Revealed in Creation

Dawn has yet to come. The sky holds husky grays in its twilight. My son and I inhale spoonfuls of oatmeal, run to the bathroom to brush our teeth, and grab backpacks on the way out the door.

Our morning routine: a race with the sun.

My son wants to see the sunrise over the marsh grass; I want to beat morning traffic before it becomes a standstill. As he buckles himself in, I shift my SUV into reverse. It’s getting lighter by the moment, but it’s still dark enough for my headlights to switch on. As I drive, my son chatters.

Then, in the darkness, we see it, just over the horizon.

“Look, Mom,” he says.

Pinks and oranges seep into the sky. Then come yellows and purples. The changing colors never cease to amaze me. They remind me of a child’s watercolor painting where the colors swirl and meld.

There is nowhere else in the world with a sunrise quite like this, I am convinced. Until later, when I no longer live in the coastal South, a dawn of red and blue speaks to my heart. Then I understand. The sun demonstrates God’s glory no matter where I live.

In my childhood home, a plaque hangs above the kitchen sink. It reads, “Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul” (Psalm 143:8 NIV).

Whenever I see a sunrise, I think of this verse.

***

“The moon is following us, Mama,” my daughter says.

It’s not quite midday. The ocean waves roll one after another, closer and closer to where my kids build a sandcastle. The tide is coming in, and the moon, happy and round in the daylight, watches us.

The gulls swoop over the waves as they look for fish. A tan man with a big belly finds a flat shell and skips it into the ocean.

There are beach walkers and dogs galore. Most are in long sleeves and shorts, but some wear swimsuits. It is the middle season here—the temps haven’t hit their humid point, but there’s no need to wear a wool hat. It is a school day, so the only children on the beach are my two, engrossed in their play.

Ten minutes earlier, my children chose a location to build their sandcastle where they thought the water would not touch it. Now they rush to strengthen the walls. The tide picks up a stray shovel and carries it away. As the waves return to the ruined castle, my children acknowledge defeat. They jog up the beach toward the dunes and start again.

They are not worried about the time. The surf is a hypnotizing metronome. It’s only when the sun begins to set that we remember the outside world. The wind, too, is a strong constant. You can’t overhear your nearest beach towel neighbor.

It is the perfect day to fly a kite.

As a child, I flew homemade kites with my aunt and uncle on the plains of South Dakota. Much like the view of the ocean, you can see for miles across vast grassland emptiness, although, unlike the beach, the tourists are few. Kathleen Norris writes in her book Dakota about the similarities between the ocean sound and the sound of the plains. ¹ Loud. Deafening.

The prophet Elijah encountered God’s presence in the wind, an earthquake, and fire. This was just after Elijah ran for his life from King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. Discouraged and weary, he came to Mount Horeb, to a cave. Then, “came a gentle whisper” (1 Kings 19:12).

I breathe in the salt air, share the land with the gulls and sandpipers, watch my children dig deep into the sandy earth, and listen to the cacophony of wind.

***

It’s just a beeswax candle on our dinner table. It flickers with our movement, casts slight shadows on the wall. Even though the sun has not yet set, it enchants us, draws us in. My children are like moths circling it.

 

They whisper. Their eating slows to small bites. We sit together as a family around the dinner table, watch the fire, and linger. My husband asks us about our day.

After epic recalls of the days’ events, our conversation turns to Bible heroes. We marvel at God’s plan and provision. We remember the small flicker of fire on the apostles’ heads on the day of Pentecost and the roar of the furnace of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

We realize God’s fingerprints in creation are all around us. There are snippets in each new day. The sunrise. The wind at the beach. This little flame in front of us.

Annie Dillard wrote in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, “The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” ²

We encounter these everyday moments, no matter where we live, year round. God’s grace and beauty are revealed through creation, a reminder of God’s care for us.

“Lord, thank you for this light and the light you offer us through your son, Jesus Christ,” I pray. “And thank you for this day.”

[1] Kathleen Norris, Dakota: A Spiritual Geography (NY: Houghton Mifflin, 2001),  40-41.

[2] Annie Dillard, “From Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” in The Annie Dillard Reader (NY: Harper Collins, 1994), 287.

Ashley Shannon is a wife, mother, and self-appointed adventure curator. As a lifelong learner, she enjoys exploring the Midwest where she lives and painting her experience of motherhood with words.

Photograph © Andy Hutchinson, used with permission