Imagine If

Imagine if everything on earth were miniature. If your bed were the perfect size for a doll house, set with minuscule pillows and sheets, and all your books were tiny, intricate masterpieces, the size of an ordinary thumbnail. Imagine if the trees outside were like the stiff green ones glued to model train scenery—but even better because they are more detailed and unique and numerous. You could peer into them and discover endless layers of intricacy. Imagine if your car were toy-sized and all roads merely little black lines that these toys rolled along on their little toy wheels. Now picture you, yourself: miniature, doll-like, a tiny person with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. You have eyelashes, teeth, a belly bottom—fully formed but almost too small to see.

The pencils on your desk: those are skinny as a needle. Your lamp is a fragile work of art. You are part of a Lilliputian world, and all life has been scaled down to fit. The glass jar on my nightstand suddenly becomes more astonishing. The elaborate pattern of the wallpaper seems miraculous. I marvel at the teensy pieces of jewelry on my dresser. How could they be so impossibly small and so impossibly beautiful?

Maybe the world really is like this. Maybe this is how God sees it. Doll-house-like. Everything gloriously small and detailed and perfect, enough to make him laugh with pleasure.