Listen: “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver
As a kid, Christmas felt like pure magic. No school, just hours and hours out in the snow—back when you could count on a white Christmas. There was the thrill of waiting for Santa, the kind of wonder you don’t even question.
Fast forward to my teen years, and I remember seeing the Rocky Mountains for the first time with my family. That trip changed everything for me. I got hooked on the wild. By sixteen, I was obsessed with backpacking all over Missouri, nose buried in Harvey Manning’s Backpacking: One Step at a Time, daydreaming about the mountains out west. After that, every year, I’d head out to Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, or Montana—anywhere I could get my boots in the dirt and my head in the clouds.
Those mountains enchanted me. I’d go hiking, try rock climbing, do a little fly fishing—sometimes I’d just sit in the Rawah Wilderness by a glacial lake, eyes half-closed, letting the world wash over me. Each trip felt like a quiet pilgrimage. I’d think about where I’d been and where I was going, but mostly, I’d just let myself be awestruck. Sometimes I’d hope my tent would survive gale-force winds in the Collegiate Peaks. Other times, I’d just lie in the snow and soak up that odd mix of peace and excitement. There was always this sense of a magical presence. I felt connected to God, and in that, I found something I can only call childlike wonder.
G. K. Chesterton—writer, philosopher, deep thinker—once said that children’s stories teach us some of the most important things in life. In “The Ethics of Elfland,” he writes about five truths tucked into most kids’ stories: the world doesn’t bother explaining itself, beauty and miracles have a magical source, beauty points to a design—even though dragons exist, humility and gratitude are the right responses, and all goodness is a treasure.
Kids don’t have to be taught to see magic. They’re wired for it. I remember spinning my two-year-old nephew around and around. I was dizzy, ready to drop, but he just giggled and begged, “Do it again!” Twenty minutes later, he was still going strong. There’s this bottomless appetite for delight in children.
It’s the same with cartoons—kids can watch the same show for the hundredth time, and their eyes are still wide with wonder. Why do we lose that as adults? Maybe there’s something eternally young built into the world, something we’re meant to stay connected to. Maybe every morning, the earth says to the sun, “Do it again!” I sometimes think we’d be amazed if dogs were purple or grass was blue—or maybe we just need to notice what’s already spectacular.
There’s science behind this, too. Our brains are like Velcro for the negative and Teflon for the positive. Rick Hanson talks about this in Hardwiring Happiness. To really take in something good, we have to pause, hold onto it for at least fifteen seconds, and let it soak in. That’s why people keep gratitude lists, meditate, or get lost in something creative.
I’ve needed those habits, especially during the dark days of 2019. Back then, I felt like I was drowning in negativity. Wonder and gratitude seemed out of reach. But nature pulled me back. Even before I felt called to be a pastor, I dreamed about biology, forestry, or wildlife work. The world and its creatures have always fascinated me. And then there are people—their stories, their resilience, the way love and heartbreak and healing play out in real life. There’s so much wonder in folks who walk through the world with humility and open eyes.
It’s no surprise, is it, that Jesus told us we need to become more like children to experience of the kingdom of God (Matthew 18:1-6; Mark 10:13-16).
Shalom
©realfredherron, 2026
