Deacon Paul Nghia Pham

THE WONDERS WE ALMOST MISS

“What is man that You are mindful of him, and a son of man that You care for him?” — Psalm 8:5

The classroom buzzed with excitement that afternoon. Pencils scratched across paper, chairs shifted, and whispers rose and fell as a group of American schoolchildren worked eagerly on an assignment written boldly on the blackboard: The Seven Wonders of the World.

Some students wrote quickly, confident in their answers. Others paused, tapping their pencils, glancing at classmates, weighing options. Names of places floated softly through the room — pyramids, walls, towers, canals. The world, after all, was full of astonishing things built by human hands.

When the teacher gathered the papers, she noticed that one student remained seated, her pencil resting quietly beside an unfinished page. The girl stared at her paper, brow furrowed, as if the task before her were far heavier than it appeared.

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

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

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

The room grew quiet. The girl hesitated, then slowly stood and began to read from her paper.

“I think the seven wonders of the world are…” She paused, took a breath, and continued.

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

Silence fell over the classroom — the kind of silence that arrives when something true has been spoken and no one knows what to say next. Even the restless energy of children seemed to disappear. You could hear a pin drop.

The teacher did not correct her. She did not redirect the answer or explain the assignment again. She simply stood there, listening, realizing that the girl had not misunderstood the question at all.

She had answered it more deeply than anyone else.

Later that day, as the classroom returned to its usual rhythm, the teacher found herself replaying the girl’s words in her mind. The wonders her students had listed were remarkable indeed — pyramids that defied time, walls that stretched beyond the horizon, cathedrals that lifted human eyes toward heaven. Each was a testament to human ingenuity, determination, and vision.

Yet none of them could see.

None could hear laughter.

None could feel joy or sorrow.

None could love.

The irony lingered.

Human beings travel thousands of miles to stand before wonders carved from stone and steel, marveling at what humanity has built. Yet many pass through their own days blind to the miracles carried quietly within themselves.

We wake each morning able to see light spill across a room — and call it ordinary.
We hear voices of those we love — and call it routine.
We taste food, feel warmth, laugh freely — and assume it will always be so.

Only when one of these gifts is threatened or taken away do we realize how wondrous it truly was.

The girl in the classroom had not listed places. She had named privileges. Gifts so common that they often go unnoticed, yet so precious that no amount of money can purchase them once lost.

Scripture understands this truth well. The psalmist gazed at the vastness of the heavens — the moon, the stars, the grandeur of creation — and was not overwhelmed by how small humanity seemed, but by how cherished. “What is man that You are mindful of him?” he asked in awe.

The real wonder, Scripture suggests, is not what towers above us, but the fact that God has placed breath, awareness, and love within us at all.

The child’s list quietly overturned the usual definition of greatness. It shifted attention away from what can be admired from a distance and turned it inward — toward what is experienced up close, moment by moment.

To see is not merely to have eyes, but to notice beauty where others rush past.
To hear is not merely sound, but meaning — words spoken softly, truths whispered, cries that need answering.
To touch is connection — a hand held, a shoulder supported, a presence that reassures without explanation.
To taste is delight — a reminder that life was meant to be savored, not merely endured.
To feel is vulnerability — the courage to be affected, wounded, moved.
To laugh is resilience — joy rising even when circumstances resist it.
To love is the greatest wonder of all — the only one that multiplies the more it is given away.

None of these can be engineered. None can be manufactured. None can be guaranteed.

They are received.

And because they are received, they can also be forgotten.

The tragedy is not that people admire great monuments. The tragedy is that they sometimes overlook the quiet miracles unfolding in their own lives. We photograph sunsets while failing to see the people standing beside us. We chase accomplishments while neglecting relationships. We speak of blessings while rarely pausing to count them.

Jesus often tried to redirect attention in the same way — away from spectacle and toward presence. He did not point people to grand structures or impressive achievements. He pointed them to eyes opened, ears unstopped, hearts healed, and lives restored. The miracles He celebrated were not merely what amazed crowds, but what restored humanity.

The little girl in the classroom reminded everyone of something ancient and enduring: the most precious wonders are not built by hand, nor bought by wealth, nor preserved by power. They are entrusted to us for a time.

Sight can fade.
Hearing can fail.
Laughter can be silenced.
Love can be neglected.

And yet, when we recognize them as wonders rather than entitlements, they deepen. Gratitude sharpens vision. Attention heightens joy. Reverence transforms the ordinary into the sacred.

Perhaps the reason the room fell silent was not because the girl was clever, but because she was honest. She spoke from experience rather than information. From wonder rather than knowledge.

She reminded everyone that the world’s greatest marvels are not always found on maps or lists, but within the fragile, fleeting gift of being human.

One day, the pyramids may erode further. Walls may crumble. Towers may fall. Even the greatest human achievements will eventually fade into history.

But every day someone sees kindness and chooses hope.
Every day someone hears truth and changes direction.
Every day someone laughs despite pain, loves despite risk, and feels despite fear.

These wonders renew themselves constantly — quietly, faithfully — wherever a human heart remains awake.

The question, then, is not whether wonders still exist in the world.

The question is whether we have slowed down enough to notice the ones we carry within us.

Because when we do, we may discover that the greatest wonders were never meant to impress us from afar, but to be lived — moment by moment — with gratitude, humility, and love.