the fascination of 'ordinary' things

When I prepare to write, I sit at my dining room table beside a wall of three windows. Sometimes when I am thinking I look outside and let my eyes wander until they land on something of interest. There is a large tree in my neighbor’s back yard, I can see it through my windows. It is an old tree with lush leaves and beautiful form. Its trunk splits on the ascension upward, one massive trunk diverging into two of less girth. The leaves of the tree stretch forth from the diverse branches, shimmering in the sun and swaying with the wind. It seems alive, and it is, though not in the same way that I am alive, or you are.

But I don’t really gaze much on that tree as I sit here. Instead I trace the lines and slopes of the deck outside my window. This deck isn’t special, it’s really pretty ordinary. It was just power washed I notice, so the color is truer to the natural wood grain, but this makes little difference. Once again, my eyes follow the crisscross pattern of the lattice beneath the deck and the vertical lines of the railings and the parallel horizontal beams that make up the steps.

Of all the things to look at outside my window, I’m not sure why I choose the deck and not the tree. The tree is obviously more beautiful to look at, but the deck holds my attention.

My first thought, as I ponder this question, is of God and me. Of all the things God can choose to look at, why does he choose to look at me? There are so many things in this world he created which I consider to be quite stunning, and then there is me, and honestly I’m fairly ordinary… like the deck outside my window.

But what if that deck outside my window is more than ordinary? What if, without knowing it, when I look at the deck the beams are crying out to me? What if the wood from a tree once standing tall is telling me something? What if that tree saw a number of things you and I have never seen? What if the tree remembers when birds of the air nested in its arms, when tiny eggs became little creatures full of breath and life? What if the tree wants to tell me that it remembers when its fingers brushed the wind, when the lightning struck so close, when the rain pelted down and thunder rumbled through the sky? Or what if those chiseled pieces of wood remember when a family came together to build it? What if this deck was forged in love and laughter and good conversation? Maybe it remembers how it was born and wants to tell me. Maybe it still listens to the parties and arguments and tender moments, and a part of it wants me to share in these moments too.

So what appears to be a simple deck holds a lot more meaning when you look closely, because it is made up of more than wood and nails.

Perhaps the same is true of me, and of you.

Mark 6:2-3 And when the Sabbath had come, He began to teach in the synagogue. And many hearing Him were astonished, saying, “Where did this Man get these things? And what wisdom is this which is given to Him, that such mighty works are performed by His hands! Is this not the carpenter, the Son of Mary, and brother of James, Joses, Judas, and Simon? And are not His sisters here with us?” So they were offended at Him.