Windows of Wonder

There are moments in this building—quiet, fleeting, seemingly small—that catch me off guard with their beauty. A slant of sunlight through stained glass casting a rainbow across a child’s shoe. The sound of two strangers laughing in the foyer. The pause in the sanctuary just after a deep question has been asked, when the silence itself feels sacred. These are windows of wonder—brief openings that remind us the divine is not distant, but here, shimmering just beneath the surface of the ordinary.

We are often taught to seek awe in the grand: mountaintops, oceans, starry skies. And those things are worthy of wonder. But so too is the hand resting gently on a shoulder. The way music fills a room and changes its temperature. The first sip of coffee on a morning when you didn’t want to get out of bed. Wonder doesn’t always need spectacle—it just needs attention.

Wonder reminds us we are not just passing through life—we are participating in it. It draws us out of our heads and into our senses. Into presence. Into the now. And it teaches us that the sacred is not reserved for sermons and ceremonies—it can be found in the smell of candles, the creak of a wooden pew, the rustle of paper in an eager child’s hands.

Every week, people bring their whole selves through my doors: joy, grief, uncertainty, hope. And in the mix of those emotions, there are moments that glow. A prayer offered not because it’s perfect, but because it’s honest. A piece of art taped to a bulletin board. A child asking if they can help light the chalice. These are moments of awe—when something in the heart says, “Yes. This matters.”

There was a moment not long ago when a member stood to speak, voice trembling, sharing a story they had never told aloud. As they spoke, the room grew still. Eyes softened. Shoulders relaxed. A breath seemed to pass through us all at once. That moment became more than its words—it became a window into shared humanity. A glimpse of the sacred made visible by courage.

Wonder is a spiritual practice. Noticing. Honoring. Slowing down enough to feel. You don’t need to climb a mountain to touch the sacred. You can look someone in the eye. You can listen deeply. You can pause and notice the way your breath moves through your body. You can feel the warmth of community as you pass a tray, a pen, a piece of paper.

To live a life rooted in wonder is to live with open hands. It means allowing yourself to be moved, even by small things. It means being willing to feel—not just joy, but sadness, surprise, confusion, and beauty all tangled together. It means believing that your presence in the world matters—that your way of seeing things adds something irreplaceable to the greater whole.

Sometimes, we forget to make room for wonder. We fill our days with tasks, our minds with worry, our calendars with obligation. But awe isn’t found in busyness—it’s found in presence. In pausing. In being where you are, fully. In taking a breath before responding. In lighting a candle just because the light feels good.

And sometimes wonder finds us when we least expect it. In the quiet before service, when everything is still. In the moment of song when the voices harmonize without rehearsal. In the tear that falls and is met with silent understanding. In the smell of coffee and the clatter of mugs during coffee hour. In the mismatched chairs and handmade signs and slightly off-key hymns that somehow feel just right.

This week, I invite you to practice wonder. Find it in the way sunlight filters through your curtains. In the way a friend’s voice sounds when they say your name. In the strange and beautiful fact that you are here, breathing, feeling, becoming.

And know that when you walk through my doors, you bring your own wonder. Your presence, your questions, your stories—they light up the space like the sun through stained glass. They remind us all that sacredness isn’t something we visit—it’s something we live.

With every creak and whisper, I stand ready to hold your stories.

Yours in awe,

The Spirit of UUNWI