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Runs. My mom called them runs. A pianist plays runs. She was expert at them. Her fingers sweeping over ivory, high and low registers, commanding the keyboard with precision and power, as if calling creation into being.

I imagine there was music at creation—the richest of music filling the galaxies, full orchestral sounds and echos against exploding colors of light as the Artist dipped His brush, swirling, stirring the bristles from color to color, creating a multitude of hues across the great canvas, its corners extending to each direction of eternity.

Brilliance, blasting against the blackest void until slowly form appeared, day by day, (millennial by millennial?) as the world was called into being.

So too are we called into being, conceptualized, not computerized, and conceived. No less miraculous is His Artistry with each beating heart within every breathing soul.

I think about these things as I count the little tasks making up my days, propelling my focus from mundane to miraculous. There is always one more thing requiring my attention before there is rest.

Becoming aware of the mundane tasks each day has made me more aware of the miraculous. I realize my days are perfectly numbered but what I do with them may not be perfectly fulfilled.

I can fret about what’s past or what is yet to be, or I can find the miracle in the moment. If a single note is missed by the pianist’s fingers, all the other notes will be affected.

The ability to acknowledge each note with precision takes the power of discipline and practice and for some reason, in the wee hours of morning, I am reminded of the Words—So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Psalm 90:12

Photo credit: OC Gonzales

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