It is easy to become so accustomed to things that you quit really noticing them. I see it as I review my manuscript. Every now and then I find that, in this document I've combed through at least five times, there are whole words missing. I know what it is supposed to say, so it was easy to just read what I intended.
It's a dear thing to be in a new place where the sights, smells, and cupcake flavors are all new. I notice all kinds of things that had faded into the bland wash of background in Atlanta. Like this morning.
I drove over the river just after the sun peeked over the hills. The surface of the water was tinted gold by the young light, and the whole thing emanated a living, moving mist. The tendrils grew and melded as I watched. Some curled up five feet above the river, others scaled the banks. It was crazy cool.
It was one of those beautiful moments that took me totally by surprise, and though I was going about seventy, I tried to savor it without running through the guardrail. I mean, I didn't expect it, never would have imagined it. And there it was, too pretty to capture in black and white phrases.
As I write I pray that God will inspire, because as much as I like to think of myself as a creative-type, the honest truth is that I'm incapable of an utterly original idea. Novelistas know how fabulous it is to find a story with a fresh voice or perspective. But the story, in its rudest form, is never truly unique.
Which makes me so grateful for a Creator God who has filled the world with as yet untold beauties. Who creates moments and inspirations and mist. He has given us a wealth of glory to work with. And He'll even do us the favor of pointing them out if we ask.
Thank you, God, for the Arkansas river at seven a.m. Thank you for all the wonders you've created. Please, help me live aware.