Something Is Missing
Something is missing.
That’s what I keep hearing in my thoughts and in my heart.
Something is missing, but what does that mean?
Here’s the thing about seminary for me: I was worried that being in the Bible would become a chore. I feared that my desire to know Jesus more deeply would be replaced by a thirst for head knowledge alone, just enough to pass tests and complete assignments. But shockingly, at least to me, that has not been the case. Each class, each reading, each discussion seems to draw me deeper into Christ. Through all this, I keep hearing Jesus inviting me to pause, to lean into this question of what is missing.
I think it is a sense of awe and wonder.
The Loss of Awe
We’ve lost that as a society. As a culture.
Sure, we can point to politics—the endless division that hangs in the air like fallout, choking out honest conversation—but it’s something deeper too. The loss is personal.
Where is the awe in looking up at the stars? For so many, space is reduced to either another realm to exploit or something irrelevant altogether. Yet Scripture reminds us that creation was designed to stir wonder in our hearts. The psalmist wrote,
“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” (Psalm 8:3–4)
The stars have never been just background decoration; they were a holy invitation to humility and awe.
It’s not just the grand, star-strewn skies. Awe is in the daily mercies we often miss. Take medicine, for example. God has blessed human minds with a level of intelligence and discovery that continues to heal diseases and extend lives. When was the last time I actually said, “Thank you, Lord, for the gift of human intellect used for good”? James reminds us,
“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” (James 1:17)
Even the drug that protects me from stroke, that, too, is a gift. A moment to marvel.
And then there are the smallest, most surprising reminders. Just the other day, I stepped outside, weary from battling the same invasive weed all summer, only to find that my so-called enemy was now showing off delicate, hot pink blossoms. I was stunned. This nuisance that I had despised greeted me with beauty. It felt like God whispering, “Even in what you resent, my glory can still break through.”
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” (Matthew 6:28–29)
Weeds with flowers, lilies in the field, even sparrows in the sky—these small gifts demand our attention if we are to rediscover wonder.
But here’s the problem: awe requires attention, and we’ve lost our ability to pay attention.
Instead, our gaze is fixed on what we think is “against us.” We live in combat mode: defensive, adversarial, and exhausted. That posture strips us of our ability to marvel at the divine fingerprints scattered everywhere: in another person’s eyes, in a courageous act of kindness, or even in the words of someone who believes differently than we do.
The past two weeks have revealed those broken places in me, too. Fear has crept in. Doubt in the human spirit has gnawed at me. And honestly? Awe has been scarce. And that is what breaks me.
Maybe what is missing isn’t something we’ve lost forever, but something we’re being invited to seek again. The prophet Isaiah reminds us of who our God is:
“Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power not one is missing.” (Isaiah 40:26)
Not one star is missing. Not one detail of creation overlooked. Not one moment of our lives wasted.
Perhaps the invitation is simply this: to slow down, lift our eyes, and open our hearts to wonder again. To remember that behind every atom of creation, behind every line of truth in Scripture, behind every hot pink weed-flower and every breath we take, is a Father inviting us into awe.
And maybe the first step to finding what is missing is to whisper the words of the psalmist:
“Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me with a willing spirit.” (Psalm 51:12)
Because joy, awe, and wonder…they all come from Him.
Photo by Kitera Dent on Unsplash
