To kick off our summer, our family took a trip out West to a couple National Parks - Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. And with every corner we turned-every steep mountain, every wildlife sighting, every waterfall - a quiet thought kept echoing in my mind:
There’s no way this is random.
I don’t know about you, but the more time I spend in nature, the more impossible it seems that all of this beauty and balance could be an accident. Nature whispers the presence of an artistic creator.
From watching a black bear and her cub roaming a quiet stretch of pine trees, to the snow-capped peaks reflecting perfectly in Lake Jenny-it all just felt too awe-inspiring, too perfectly designed to be chalked up to chance.
One morning, we stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, just feet from the roaring drop of the Lower Falls. My 8-year-old son looked over, wide-eyed, and said, “This is like God made a water slide! What if I jumped in?” I laughed- but honestly, he wasn’t wrong.
There was power, wonder, and a kind of thrill all wrapped up in that one view. It was raw, wild, and breathtaking-like standing on the edge of a living painting, albeit a painting I didn’t want him jumping in.
As we hiked trails where wildflowers bloomed in places no landscaper could’ve designed, or watched bison roam valleys like they owned the land (because let’s be honest-they kind of do), I found myself feeling a bit of guilt about home. Because while Yellowstone has geysers and grizzlies, we have our own incredible version of wild beauty right here in North Florida, and I realize I take it for granted far too often.
We have the Vilano Beach sunrise, where the sky lights up in pinks and golds before most people pour their first cup of coffee.
We have Payne’s Prairie, where wild horses and cracker cattle still roam like a scene from centuries ago, reminding us that we’re not as far removed from the natural world as we like to think.
We have freshwater springs so clear they seem surreal, bubbling up year-round with life and coolness like nature’s reset button.
So as you carve out some time this summer, I hope you’ll find a moment to pause and just look around you. Step outside early and catch a glimpse of the sunrise. Take the long way home through the back roads. Sit by the water and just listen.
Because creation is still whispering. And if we slow down enough to hear it, it’ll remind us that we’re part of something far greater than ourselves-and far too beautiful to be an accident.