Without realizing it, I had been teaching my son to worship.
On walks down the country lane, I would point things out to him almost instinctively — the trees stretching high above us, ants marching in perfect little lines along fallen logs, wildflowers brushing against his legs in the wind. I wanted him to notice the world. To slow down long enough to really see it.
At the time, I thought I was simply sharing small moments with him. But now I think something much more transformative was happening.
To me, it was fun.
To him though, it was formation.
I was cultivating wonder.
And perhaps wonder is where worship begins.
Children are naturally attentive in a way adults often are not. They stop for tiny things we pass without seeing. A bird overhead. A strangely shaped cloud. The sound of rain against a window. They live close to awe.
And slowly, without me noticing it, my son began leading me back into that way of seeing too.
“Look at the clouds, Mammy!”
“Did you see that birdie?”
“Hello, Mr. Sun!”
What once felt ordinary soon became luminous again through his eyes.
His delight interrupted my rushing. His attention softened my distraction. The world I had learned to move through quickly became alive again.
Children are not only wonderful — they are wonder-filled.
And every bit of their wonder feels like a response to the God who made all things.
The Catechism says that “the desire for God is written in the human heart” (CCC 27). Watching my son delight in clouds and birds and sunlight reminds me that this longing begins so early. Before children can explain theology, they already know how to stand in awe. They already know how to receive the world as gift.
I think adulthood often trains this out of us. We become efficient, hurried, practical. We stop noticing. We stop listening. We stop allowing ourselves to be moved by ordinary beauty.
But children draw us back.
And maybe that is one of the hidden gifts of motherhood, not only that we form our children, but that they help reform us too.
Their wonder renews ours.
Their delight teaches us to pay attention again.
And suddenly, awe becomes prayer.
Every gasp, every “Look, Mammy!” becomes its own small hymn of praise to the Creator.
Wonder, after all, is not far from worship. It is the soul pausing long enough to recognize that creation is charged with meaning, beauty, and the presence of God.
Perhaps this is part of what Christ meant when He told us to become like little children.
Not childish.
But open.
Attentive.
Receptive.
Capable of astonishment.
Professor John Vervaeke speaks about awe as something we can almost physically cultivate. He describes exercises where people lift their heads toward the sky and allow their mouths to fall slightly open — the posture of wonder itself. A rather childlike posture.
But why would we want to do that?
Perhaps because sometimes we must enact something before we fully understand it. Wonder begins in the humility of admitting that we do not fully know. It opens us to mystery, to transcendence, to the reality of something beyond ourselves. Awe lifts us out of self-absorption and reorientates us toward something greater.
There is something deeply spiritual in recognizing that the world still exceeds our understanding. Think of all the sunsets you have seen in your life. They do not become less beautiful because they are familiar. The Beauty remains gratuitous. Unnecessary. Overflowing. Perhaps that is part of what wonder teaches us: that creation is not merely functional, but revelatory — saturated with the generosity and glory of God.
Sometimes I think the holiest thing we can do is stop long enough to notice what a child notices. Things like the sunlight through leaves, the movement of clouds, the unnoticed beauty all around us in our everyday lives.
“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands”
(Psalm 19:1)
So yes. I’ve found out that teaching your child to wonder can unknowingly teach them how to worship the Creator.
What a beautiful mystery!
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