I hope this is visible. It's not as amazing as it was in real life, but I hope it's kind of evident.  It's a spider's web--a really big one--that I happened to see on a neighbor's lamppost a few days ago. I don't know if I would have seen it if we hadn't passed by at just the moment we did. The sun was setting, so the light caught it just right so that I could see the details of this exquisite (and creepy) web and all the things caught in it. In fact, as I tried to get a good angle, the light dropped enough that I almost lost the chance to get the photo. 

I've been reading a book called Awe. It talks about the benefits of feeling awe, and the ways we might find it in our lives. Some interesting things are that feelings of awe actually improve mood and cognitive abilities! And in some ways, I think having the gospel seems to provide us with more opportunities to see awe--or maybe it's just that we might be more open to it? 

One of the interesting points I found was a reminder that we often are unaware of the things around us that can bring us wonder and awe. That we are lost in thought, have forgotten to look, or are distracted by concerns or devices or whatever. The author pointed out that, for children, everything is new, so they find awe in the world all the time. If we could be like children a bit--sound familiar?--we might also find awe more in our lives. I know that when I go on walks with my grandchildren, they see a million wonders in the world that I might miss. Bugs and cracks in sidewalks that look like rivers. They remind me to be aware and in awe of my surroundings. Awe can be found in human behavior, too: courage or kindness, for example. In music and art. But we have to put ourselves in the positions to find it and then we have to quiet down and look. I want that in my life. I don't want to miss what can bring awe--even if it's a creepy spider's web big enough like it could catch a bird but fragile and delicate and sparkling in the evening light, visible really for only a few moments. How cool is that? 

 It's hard to see in the photo, but I couldn't resist taking a picture: first snow of the season, and someone on campus had made a snowman. It is only a temporary one, as the weather is warming and already tilting him to the side. (In fact, the second I snapped the photo his head rolled off!). But still. It's the first snow and it's a snowman. 

I have always loved snowmen. I have quite a collection in my home--some that stay with us all year round and not just at Christmas. I love Calvin's snowmen. I just get such a kick out of how he uses them to communicate what he really thinks, creating commentary on life as he sees it. 

Once I saw a watercolor of a snowman in a mason jar with a caption: There is no snowman resurrection--Enjoy now. I refused to buy it even though I loved it because whoever had painted it had misspelled "resurrection," and I knew that it would just bother me. But my artist friend knew how much I wanted it, so she made me one. 

So, I wonder if I like snowmen for just that: they are temporary and therefore precious. But, with that thought I realize that everything--everyone--is just that, too: temporary. We are all only here for a short time. People pass through our lives and on, to another place, which means, in some cases, that we will never meet again in this life. With that thought, I realize that I should treat everyone I meet as temporary and precious, as gifts in the moment. It's a kind of grace, I think, that snowmen remind me of. Something I need to remember more often when a driver irritates me or a person in the store is rude. I need to imagine them all as snowmen. Precious.