The cliff in New Zealand, sculpted over hundreds of years by the slow work of a glacier, didn’t look so high when we first pulled up. But when we got out of the car and walked a bit closer to it, I suddenly felt so very small.
Every sight on that trip, each turn in the road, brought new magnificence I couldn’t quite grasp. Snow-topped mountains, deep valleys, and blue glacier-fed rivers surrounded us. Every two minutes new panoramas reminded me just how small I am.
We found a deserted hiking trail off the road we were traveling and said yes to the steep hike. It wasn’t long before we crossed a snow-fed stream on a delicate foot bridge at the edge of the snow line. We pulled out PB&Js and looked back across the mountain we had just climbed. I sat and let the chilly breeze wake me up. I listened to the stream cut through the mountain’s eerie silence. I breathed deeply, breathing in the gorgeous peaks before me.
“It doesn’t look real,” I said.
“No, it looks like a painting.”
Dizzy with this realization about the scene in front of me, I understood what it means for the rocks to cry out. And like the psalmist, I felt that same cry of praise fill me to the brim: I will sing to the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have being (v. 33). I absorbed creation’s bold witness to the goodness, power, and never-ending work of God. I felt just how very small I am. But I knew I was safe.
Where in creation do you feel small? When have you witnessed the praise songs of creation?
God, I pray that I meet you with the same joy and humility the rocks do. Help me see my small, important, safe place in the stunning landscape of your creation. Amen.