By Peter Holmes
MY earliest memory is of my father introducing me to snow.
Snow was a rarity in our part of the world, only falling once or twice in a lifetime. As soon as he saw the flakes falling through our kitchen window, my father swept me, a two-year-old boy, into his arms and stepped out into the cold air. Ignoring the outraged cries of my mother at exposing her baby to such cold, he laughed, danced and spun me around in his arms as the snow fell on our upturned faces.
I have never forgotten that moment, because of how it felt.
For that moment my father and I were lost in pure wonder, a shared joy in a simple experience of the world around us.
I am delighted to say that my early life was filled with similar moments.
My father was continually taking us on long walks into bushland, wading up ice-cold mountain streams, making our way through leech-infested brambles, climbing waterfalls and jumping into pools in mountain streams.
But in my memory, all these remarkable experiences fade into the background of small, seemingly mundane moments in daily life.
I remember the time we were digging a hole (I cannot recall what it was for) and I found an earthworm.
Everything stopped for half an hour while we watched the worm move, talked about the good that worms do in our garden and he laughed along with me as we speculated about how far Mr Worm was from home, and whether he was carrying a gift for his children.
Some time ago I was worrying that my children were growing without the glorious experiences of the countryside that I enjoyed.
In a vain attempt to recapture this kind of experience, I dragged my children on several occasions to a rocky lookout that commands an excellent view of the seas off the eastern coast of Australia.
The plan was to have a brilliant father/children moment watching the sun rise over the waves.
Alas, each and every time we got up in the darkness and travelled to that rocky place, torrential rain drove us under a narrow ledge, huddled together around a single thermos of Milo, until we gave up and trudged home with coughs and sniffles.
Experiences are a grand thing, but I was going about it the wrong way.
My mistake was that I imagined I had to set up a big experience in order to introduce wonder into my children’s world.
This week I was forced, by necessity, to take my four-year-old girl with me to my office.
I planned the trip carefully, promising her special treats if she could behave well while I was talking to the people in my office, and planning my visit to be as short as possible.
Unfortunately I forgot to check the weather forecast and we were trapped in a rainstorm.
I was standing under an overhang, cursing my luck, when my daughter looked up with those huge eyes that melt a father’s heart, and asked me: “Daddy, can we run in the rain?” I opened my mouth to explain all the reasons we should not get wet, that running on slippery footpaths was dangerous, and so on.
In that moment, in her pleading eyes, I saw the joyful wonder I remembered feeling in the snow so many years ago.
So we ran.
The joyful shrieks of laughter as we jogged, skidded and slipped down the rainy footpath turned many heads.
Some frowned at such irresponsible behaviour, but most could not help but smile as my daughter’s infectious laugh ticked their souls.
I did give my daughter her promised treat that day.
We had a “fancy” lunch in a restaurant and a large smoothie afterwards.
But the thing she remembers is the mad 30-second dash in the rain.
Children have a habit of helping adults to see the wonders of the world that they have grown accustomed to, even bored with.
But we don’t need children to remind us. Growing up isn’t about being serious all the time.
Yes, growing up means learning to be responsible, care for others and fulfil our obligations even when we don’t feel like it.
But if we ever lose that sense of child-like wonder at the world, we would be losing something more precious than we can imagine.
In the eyes of a small child, or a wise grown-up, the world is full of great wonder. The smallest experience is an opportunity to look, learn something new and lose ourselves in the experience.
When you look at the world this way, everything becomes a wonder. Everything.
Peter Holmes is an Australian theologian.
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