If I twist my neck hard enough, I can see the disappearing shores of Lake Michigan out the window of our aircraft.  Frankly, I've had to discipline myself to take in the view.  That's right; force myself to gaze down on the majesty of a spring morning from 20,000 feet.

Bombastic clouds throw mottled patterns on the landscape below.  The green of the young season is so intense as to appear unnaturally tweaked in Photoshop.  Yet I scarcely notice any of it.

 Is it tiredness?  Perhaps. But the truth is much worse.  I'm no longer in awe.  Too many early morning plane rides.

I'm reminded of another early morning jet flight, my first.  Dad took me with him on a business trip up to Michigan. I remember every exquisite detail: the sounds, the smells, the clack of the seat buckle.

Dad had described the take-off experience so vividly, I wanted more than anything to feel the sensation of the nose lifting up higher than the rest of the aircraft. The take-off did not disappoint but my fellow passengers did.   The guy across the aisle read a magazine, bored.  Many others were lost in newspapers, and still more trying to doze off.  All of this while amazing scenery rushed by outside the window. How could they? I thought.  Mystery and marvel were there for the taking, but alas, went unspoken for.

I swore then and there I would never let that happen to me—that I would remain wide-eyed and in awe of the experience.  If a yawn is the currency of boredom, familiarity asks too high a price.   Yet here I am.  Weary and wonderless.

 As repetition dulls the edge of wonder, the sharper-than-any-two-edged-Sword

offers a focal point for restoration: “God thunders with His voice wondrously, doing great things which we cannot comprehend” (Job 37:5).

Look out your window.  Look now.  There's wonder out there!