Deacon Paul Nghia Pham

WHAT CANNOT BE BUILT

“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.” — Psalm 34:9

The classroom assignment seemed simple enough.

A group of American schoolchildren were asked to list what they believed were the present Seven Wonders of the World. The room filled quickly with quiet confidence. Pens moved swiftly. Some students whispered names to themselves as they wrote, carefully spelling places they had seen in books or on screens.

When the papers were collected and compared, there were disagreements, of course—but a clear pattern emerged. The most common answers rose to the surface like monuments themselves:

The Great Pyramids of Egypt.
The Taj Mahal.
The Grand Canyon.
The Panama Canal.
The Empire State Building.
St. Peter’s Basilica.
The Great Wall of China.

They were impressive choices—achievements carved from stone, steel, and human ambition. Each represented centuries of effort, imagination, and endurance. Each testified to humanity’s desire to leave something behind that would outlast a single lifetime.

As the teacher gathered the votes, she noticed one paper still unfinished. A young girl sat quietly at her desk, pencil resting motionless in her hand.

“Are you having trouble with your list?” the teacher asked gently.

“A little,” the girl replied. “I couldn’t quite make up my mind because there are so many.”

The teacher smiled. “Why don’t you tell us what you have so far? Maybe we can help.”

The girl hesitated. Then she stood and read from her paper, her voice steady but soft.

“I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:

To see.
To hear.
To touch.
To taste.
To feel.
To laugh.
To love.”

The room fell completely silent.

No one laughed. No one corrected her. Even the usual restlessness of children seemed to disappear. For a moment, the class understood that something important had been said—something true, though unexpected.

The girl had not misunderstood the assignment. She had simply answered a deeper question.

The wonders her classmates named were remarkable, but they all shared one limitation: they required someone else to experience them. A pyramid means nothing to a blind eye. A cathedral echoes only to those who can hear. A canyon inspires awe only in a heart capable of wonder.

Without the gifts the girl named, the world’s greatest structures become mute.

In that quiet classroom, a truth emerged that many adults spend their lives rediscovering.

The most wondrous things are not the ones humanity builds, but the ones humanity is given.

Sight is a wonder not because it sees monuments, but because it sees faces.
Hearing is a wonder not because it captures echoes, but because it recognizes voices.
Touch is a wonder not because it measures texture, but because it comforts.
Taste is a wonder not because it evaluates cuisine, but because it reminds us we are alive.
Feeling is a wonder not because it is pleasant, but because it allows us to be human.
Laughter is a wonder not because it is loud, but because it breaks despair.
Love is a wonder not because it is easy, but because it transforms everything it touches.

None of these can be engineered. None can be manufactured. None can be guaranteed by wealth or preserved by power.

They are received.

The girl’s list gently overturned the way greatness is usually measured. The world often celebrates what is visible from afar—structures that tower, achievements that impress, accomplishments that endure. But the deepest wonders are intimate. They are experienced up close, often in moments so ordinary they escape notice.

We overlook them precisely because they are always with us.

Until they are not.

Few people appreciate sight until vision fades.
Few treasure hearing until silence arrives.
Few recognize the miracle of touch until it is withheld.

Loss sharpens gratitude. Absence clarifies value. What once seemed ordinary suddenly reveals itself as extraordinary.

Scripture has always recognized this paradox. When the psalmist invites us to “taste and see,” he is not speaking about luxury or spectacle. He is pointing toward awareness—an attentiveness to goodness already present. Faith, in this sense, is not about acquiring more, but about perceiving more deeply.

The girl understood something instinctively that wisdom later teaches: life’s greatest riches are not external.

No one can buy the ability to laugh sincerely.
No one can construct genuine love.
No one can sell meaning by the square foot.

Even the most breathtaking wonders of the world rely on fragile human senses to be known. When those senses are lost, monuments lose their power. When love is absent, beauty feels hollow.

The irony is that humanity often sacrifices the invisible wonders while chasing visible ones. We trade time with loved ones for accomplishments meant to impress strangers. We trade presence for productivity. We trade wonder for ambition.

We build lives full of monuments and empty of meaning.

The classroom moment lingered not because the girl was clever, but because she was attentive. She noticed what others assumed. She named what others overlooked. She reminded the room—and anyone willing to listen—that wonder is not something we travel to see, but something we carry.

A life rich in love can flourish without pyramids.
A heart capable of laughter needs no cathedral.
A soul awake to gratitude lives among wonders daily.

This does not diminish the beauty of human achievement. The world’s great structures deserve admiration. But admiration must not replace awareness. When we confuse the container for the gift, we lose both.

Jesus often redirected attention in this way. He did not deny the beauty of the world, but He refused to let people miss the greater miracle unfolding within them. He healed eyes so people could see, ears so they could hear, hearts so they could love. His miracles restored not monuments, but persons.

The girl’s list echoes that same wisdom.

Long after the pyramids erode, someone will still laugh.
Long after walls crumble, someone will still love.
Long after towers fall, someone will still feel joy.

The greatest wonders renew themselves daily, quietly, without announcement.

The question is not whether the world still holds wonders. It does. The question is whether we are awake enough to recognize them.

Most of life’s miracles do not demand applause. They ask for attention.

To notice the sound of a familiar voice.
To feel the warmth of a hand held.
To taste a simple meal and give thanks.
To laugh even when life is imperfect.
To love even when it costs.

These wonders cannot be built by hand or bought by wealth. They can only be received, cherished, and shared.

Perhaps that is why the room fell silent.

For a brief moment, everyone sensed the same truth: the greatest wonders of the world are not out there, waiting to be visited.

They are already here—
alive within us,
fragile, fleeting,
and infinitely precious.