She couldn't have been more than two years old, this little explorer who stopped my world in its tracks. While her mother walked ahead with purposeful strides, the toddler had discovered something far more captivating than any destination: a patch of weeds growing along the sidewalk. I watched, mesmerized, as her tiny fingers wrapped around each stem, pulling with the focused intensity of a scientist conducting groundbreaking research. Her mother patiently observing and waiting on her daughter to explore her new world.
In that moment, I realized I was witnessing something I had forgotten existed—pure, unfiltered wonder.
The world through a child's eyes is filled with amazement, and this little girl was living proof. Every weed was a new discovery, every texture a revelation worthy of investigation. She had stumbled upon treasure in the most ordinary place, finding fascination where I would have seen only something to step over or ignore entirely.
As I stood there watching her careful examination of what I had dismissed as mere weeds, a uncomfortable question began to form: When did I begin neglecting and taking things around me for granted?
I tried to remember the last time I had really seen the world around me—not just glanced at it while rushing to my next appointment, but truly observed it with any sense of wonder. Those corners that I blow by without regard or observation suddenly seemed to multiply in my mind. How many small miracles had I missed in my hurry to get somewhere else? How many moments of beauty had I overlooked in my efficiency-driven days?
The weight of this realization settled over me like a gentle but persistent teacher. What am I missing by simply ignoring what God surrounds me with? The question felt both humbling and urgent. Here was this child, barely able to speak in full sentences, yet she was experiencing more genuine amazement in five minutes than I feel on a regular basis.
I began to consider how this ignorant bliss impacts me in ways unseen. When we stop noticing the intricate details of our daily environment, we don't just miss pretty sights—we miss opportunities for gratitude, for connection, for recognizing the divine fingerprints on ordinary moments. We become spiritually malnourished without even realizing it.
Standing there, I felt convicted by a deeper truth: Why am I so arrogant as to ignore the signs and wonders God places for me to see? This small child wasn't just playing with weeds; she was demonstrating a form of worship I had forgotten. Her attention was complete, her curiosity unguarded, her delight genuine. She was living fully in the present moment, receiving each discovery as a gift.
I thought about all the unrealized wonders and opportunities to live life to the fullest that I had been blind to. How many sunsets had I missed because I was staring at my phone? How many conversations had I half-heard because my mind was already three tasks ahead? How many small kindnesses had I overlooked because they didn't fit my definition of significant?
The truth that emerged felt both challenging and liberating: To live life to the fullest is what God should receive from me. Not a distracted, hurried, efficiency-obsessed version of myself, but someone fully present to the world He has created. I should care enough about God to love Him fully, and part of that love means paying attention—really paying attention—to what He has placed before me.
As the little girl finally stood up, satisfied with her botanical research, and walked ahead to catch up with her mother, I understood something profound. To love Him fully is to never cease to have childlike wonder for His ways. Wonder isn't childish; it's child-like. It's the difference between naivety and wisdom, between ignorance and recognition.
That day, a toddler became my teacher, and a patch of weeds became my classroom. She reminded me that the sacred and the ordinary are often the same thing, separated only by our willingness to see. The question that began this encounter—"What else am I taking for granted?"—has become my daily prayer, an invitation to slow down, notice, and remember that wonder is always available to those who choose to cultivate it.
Perhaps the greatest miracle isn't found in dramatic moments, but in learning to see the extraordinary hidden within the utterly ordinary—one weed, one moment, one awakened heart at a time.