Twice now on my snowy walk, I see a van of photographers pull up to the edge of the woods. They tumble out, gear swinging from their arms, as they gingerly make their way through the mounds of snow. They stand with cameras ready.
This time, I follow them. I watch what they’re watching. I look. I do what they do, stopping only when the too-deep snow keeps me back.
And then I see it. A flash of gold and white, magnificent in the winter sky. A swoosh of wings, and the enormous bird shakes the snow down from the branches of the tallest tree.
They aim their cameras.
I have no idea what I’m seeing. An owl? An eagle? Some outrageously large hawk? And why would it matter so much? What is this thing I’m witnessing? What makes it that worthy to follow like this?
I don’t know.
But they do. They follow the mystery, the beauty, the magnificence. They seek to capture whatever this marvelous thing is. They know why it matters and what it means.
I think of all those people ahead of me who captured the beautiful, marvelous things I didn’t know how to see. I thought of those before me who pointed out a wonderful God I didn’t know how to find. But they did. I followed them down the path until I could see for myself.
Teachers, parents, coaches, and friends. They raced to God, and I was captured first by their marveling.