I was blessed to have a mother who was especially attuned to beauty. In art, music, literature, nature—in any aspect of life–my mom would find beauty. Without ever having read Dostoevsky, she adhered to his belief that beauty would save the world.

In many ways I inherited my mom’s sensitivity to beauty and have carried it into my adult life. It was a surprise to me, then, when I became an English teacher, to discover that so many of my high school students were oblivious to the siren song of beauty.  The jarring sights and cacophonous sounds that permeated their world drowned out the subtle whisper of beauty, a condition I found troubling at best and saddening at worst. I made it a part of my pedagogical mission to open the eyes of my students to the wondrous facets of beauty they routinely missed.  I played Mozart, displayed prints of Monet, read poems from Mary Oliver, crowded my room with lilacs, and stood with them at the windows in silence to watch snowflakes drift to the ground. I hoped that somewhere the seed of desire for true beauty would take root in their souls.

When I became a father, I decided that I would not leave a love of beauty to chance for my children; I was determined to surround them with all things beautiful so that their hearts would be oriented to beauty. And so along with my wife Susan, our family made room in our days to stop and stare in wonder at the myriad gifts God set before us, especially those in the natural world.  As a result we started what I called “Beauty Walks.” At some point in the day we would all head outside, sometimes with a destination–the park, the playground, the church– but often with no particular goal other than to be out of the house together. We never told the kids that beauty was the purpose for our bike rides, walks, and hikes, but it was.

In the spring we would stop to rejoice over the miracle of crocuses popping through the April snow or to bask in the delicious purple of the first lilacs. In summer we would marvel at a profusion of zinnias or taste the hidden sweetness of fresh clover. Fall brought a kaleidoscope of leaves and the smell of woodsmoke. In winter the frost could turn ordinary objects into something magical while heavy snows transformed our simple town into a scene from Currier and Ives. There was never a day without God’s grandeur to startle us.

As we took these Beauty Walks, something equally amazing happened:  the kids began to discover beauty on their own. They perceived a universe of beautiful things that my wife and I overlooked. They stopped to gaze at bugs, picked up rocks and sticks as treasures, and collected leaves, acorns, and chestnuts by the dozens to put in their rooms, their personal shrines to beauty. As my wife and I hoped, they became attuned to the allure of beauty, finding it wherever they went, letting it fill their youthful souls. Van Gogh said that the best way to know God was to love many things.  By falling in love with the infinite beauty that surrounded them in our small town lives, our kids grew closer to God. As we hoped, the astonishment at creation led them to the Creator, the source of all beauty. 

I can still see the way in which beauty enlarges the hearts of my now grown children.  They play instruments with passion and joy; they flood our family chat with photos of stunning sunsets, glorious mountain views, and perfect homemade croissants and cakes. Most importantly, they look for beauty in those they encounter each day.  In short, through beauty they have come to notice God’s presence all around them, a grace that gives them hope even when life turns hard. 

I am grateful the Beauty Walks have settled deep in the souls of my children, a gift that keeps growing each day. If the Talmud is right that each life is a world of its own, then Dostoevsky was right, too, that Beauty can save the world, one soul at a time.