Wonder

 Aaron Salvato substack

There is something  wonderfully absurd about the idea that an all-powerful God… the kind who speaks galaxies into being, concerns Himself with me.

He governs stars.

He holds back evil with one hand and writes the arc of history with the other.

He concerns Himself with empires, angels, nations… atoms.

And yet, He stoops, daily, without fail, into the small, messy, ordinary world of my life.

He is no distracted deity, managing cosmic affairs from a distance, occasionally checking in like some aloof landlord. 

No, this God is present.

Present in the ache.

Present in the laughter.

Present in the dull Tuesdays AND the broken prayers AND the late-night panic AND the sunlit moments of peace.

He moves with the deliberate attentiveness of a parent:

Not hovering or smothering, but watching, caring, guiding.

Grieving when we stumble, rejoicing when we return.

Correcting with kindness, cheering us on when we dare to love.

Taking joy when we take joy in the wonders of this world He created for us.

And this is the mystery that wrecks me: He is not merely tolerant of us. 

He delights.

Like a mother watching her child take their first steps.

Like a father seeing his daughter choose courage.

He watches with a pride that isn’t fragile or needy, but full and free and overflowing.

If you had told me a God existed who ruled the universe, I might believe you.

If you had told me He was holy, just, eternal, I could nod.

But to tell me He sees me—to the bottom—and loves me still?

That He knows the past present and future and has seen me on my worst day… and yet still chose to die for me?

That is the scandal.

That is the wonder.

What kind of God is this?

Not one we would invent.

But one who invented us, watched us break… and insists on loving us still.

This is why the Christian story refuses to grow stale.

At its heart is a love both fierce and familiar… like a father’s arms: strong enough to hold the world, soft enough to hold you.