The ordinary wonders that give me belief, like the dawn of each day

I often wonder how things would appear if I first encountered them in adulthood.

It happens every time I witness fireworks. If I heard monstrous booms and cracks one night, saw massive bursts of colour exploding in the sky, what would I think? Maybe that the world had ended or aliens were invading.

It also happens when I struggle to tell identical twins apart. It wouldn’t make much sense if I’d never seen or heard of this phenomenon.

Or what if I encountered a machine that moves through sky, not knowing what it was. Climbing aboard, not realising I was about to fly, then takeoff – it’s hard to know if I would faint with fear or feel delight.

If I knew nothing about pregnancy, it would take some convincing to assure me that an entire separate person can begin to live and grow in a woman’s body.

I can’t remember the first time I discovered fireworks, a twin, an aeroplane or a pregnant mum. My forgetfulness amazes me as well. It speaks of how easily memories can be lost, and how accepting kids can be – how accustomed to absorbing information that is strange, that seems to make no sense.

Another thing I wonder: precisely when did I first realise I would die? My loved ones, strangers, too. It’s a moment I’m surprised I would forget.

I suppose the truth dawned gradually. Perhaps I didn’t understand at first, and then was sceptical, then came around. What a thing that death seems normal now. Or believable, at least.

Sometimes the sky is just so beautiful I can’t imagine anyone, anywhere, could see it and not feel a sense of awe.

I’ve heard that when atheist philosopher Bertrand Russell was asked what he would say if he encountered God after dying, he famously replied: “You didn’t give us enough evidence!”

But what if evidence abounds? If the problem is we’re just so used to it?

Some marvels are easier to take for granted, accept and overlook, than others. There’s something about the dawn of a day and its closing that, however ‘normal’, moves me still.

Years ago I memorised some verses from an ancient psalm. Now almost every time I watch the sun spilling paint across the sky, they come to mind.

Psalm 19 says that the heavens declare the glory of God; that the skies proclaim the work of his hands; that day after day and night after night, they pour forth speech and knowledge.

Sometimes the sky is just so beautiful I can’t imagine anyone, anywhere, could see it and not feel a sense of awe. Colours spread and glow, they pulse and change, I drink them in and drink them up.

Emma Wilkins is a Tasmanian journalist and freelance writer, and a Fellow of the Centre for Public Christianity.

This article first appeared in The Age.