“It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.” -GK Chesterton
Imagine, if you will, a God who does not merely wind the clock of the cosmos and step away, as some cold engineer might. No, picture a Creator who, each dawn, leans toward the sun with a conspiratorial grin and whispers, “Do it again!”—and the great golden orb, like a child eager to please, blazes forth anew, painting the sky with hues no algorithm could predict. And when dusk settles, this same God, with the tenderness of a poet, turns to the moon and murmurs, “Do it again!”—and she, silver and shy, climbs the night to spill her dreams over a sleeping world.
We moderns, with our apps and analytics, might call the world’s rhythms “automatic,” as if the universe were a machine churning out days like widgets on a factory line. But what if the truth is wilder? What if every daisy—each petal a delicate defiance of chaos—is not stamped from some cosmic mold, but shaped by the hands of a God who never tires of daisies? Imagine a Maker who, with the glee of a child building sandcastles, crafts each flower afresh, not because He must, but because He delights in the act of making.
In our rush to measure and master, we risk forgetting this: the world’s repetition is not a glitch in the code, but a song God loves to sing. The tides that kiss the shore, the stars that pinprick the night, the laughter of a baby rediscovering its toes—these are not mere reruns. They are encores, each one a fresh performance, willed by a God who finds joy in the familiar. To Him, the millionth sunrise is as astonishing as the first, and the trillionth daisy no less beloved than its kin.
So pause, dear reader, and look anew. The world is not a machine, but a story told by One who never grows weary of telling it. And you—yes, you—are invited to listen, to laugh, to wonder, and perhaps to whisper back, “Do it again!”
Imagine, if you will, a God who does not merely wind the clock of the cosmos and step away, as some cold engineer might. No, picture a Creator who, each dawn, leans toward the sun with a conspiratorial grin and whispers, “Do it again!”—and the great golden orb, like a child eager to please, blazes forth anew, painting the sky with hues no algorithm could predict. And when dusk settles, this same God, with the tenderness of a poet, turns to the moon and murmurs, “Do it again!”—and she, silver and shy, climbs the night to spill her dreams over a sleeping world.
We moderns, with our apps and analytics, might call the world’s rhythms “automatic,” as if the universe were a machine churning out days like widgets on a factory line. But what if the truth is wilder? What if every daisy—each petal a delicate defiance of chaos—is not stamped from some cosmic mold, but shaped by the hands of a God who never tires of daisies? Imagine a Maker who, with the glee of a child building sandcastles, crafts each flower afresh, not because He must, but because He delights in the act of making.
In our rush to measure and master, we risk forgetting this: the world’s repetition is not a glitch in the code, but a song God loves to sing. The tides that kiss the shore, the stars that pinprick the night, the laughter of a baby rediscovering its toes—these are not mere reruns. They are encores, each one a fresh performance, willed by a God who finds joy in the familiar. To Him, the millionth sunrise is as astonishing as the first, and the trillionth daisy no less beloved than its kin.
So pause, dear reader, and look anew. The world is not a machine, but a story told by One who never grows weary of telling it. And you—yes, you—are invited to listen, to laugh, to wonder, and perhaps to whisper back, “Do it again!”
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