Back in the old farmhouse, Grandma kept a cactus garden. A clear Rubbermaid tub about two feet by three feet and ten inches deep was home to a small log cabin, a china woman, a forest of cacti, and one precocious brown plastic squirrel. My five-year-old brain was absolutely fascinated. Another world lay nestled in the dirt and I hardly dared move a thing amongst the prickly trees.
In the sandbox at home, I dug lakes and lined them with garbage bags, I built bridges out of sticks, grass, and sand and bent low trying to imagine what it would look like if I were small enough to cross that bridge or live in that castle.
In a large, well-loved hardcover book I borrowed from the school library, I met Thumbelina and the little prince she married, despite all the handsome frogs. (Hans Christian Andersen) I loved to imagine napping inside a tulip or bumping along in someone’s pocket.
Later, when our family moved to a place in the country, I transplanted pansies and little wild daises with fern-like leaves to make a little garden under our soft maple tree. Before they had time to flourish, they were mown off, being really a part of the lawn. My Mom offered that I could have my own patch of garden, but I didn’t know how to explain that it just wouldn’t be the same, not my sacred tiny secret anymore.
These days, when I ramble out in nature, I am still pulled in by the little things: the way frost turns grass leaves into spears, the tiny rainbow beaming from a dew drop, an eye-like knot in a tree, or that tiny purple dot that is Queen Anne in her lace. Even the multiple patterns of leaves that distinguish one plant from another are absolutely amazing.
I cannot explain why I love little things, but maybe it’s because they give me one small glimpse of what Creator God sees when He looks at His small world. He notices every detail of your life and mine.