I was recently listening to a stirring song written by a country singer. The lyrics were heartfelt, expressing the importance of teaching our children about matters of the soul. Not just to instruct them on how to achieve success in the world but to notice their surroundings, to learn from nature—the river, the mountains, the sunset, and the morning light.

The thought lingered with me.

As I wandered around Whispering Oaks Ridge one evening, watching long shadows stretch across the meadow and listening to birds settling in for the night, I found myself reflecting on all that we strive so diligently to teach our children.

We teach them how to read and write.
How to exercise and stay healthy.
How to work hard and to manage money.
How to solve problems and become independent.
How to succeed in an increasingly complicated world.

All those lessons matter. They are important because they help equip our children to become capable, responsible adults, but I wonder if, somewhere along the way, we have unintentionally neglected something equally important to their well-being.

In our effort to prepare them for making a living, have we forgotten to teach them how to create a meaningful life?

A life filled with gratitude. A life connected to something larger than themselves, and a life that values a well-nourished soul.

The world of today is eager to teach our children how to compete, achieve, perform, and accumulate. Every screen, advertisement, and social media feed seems to reinforce the message that success is measured by what we own, what we accomplish, or how others perceive us.

Yet some of life’s most valuable lessons are not found in a classroom, purchased in a store, or downloaded from the internet. Instead, they are learned slowly. Quietly and patiently over time, often from observing the wonders found in nature. 

The river teaches persistence. The oak tree teaches strength and endurance. The sunrise teaches hope and fresh beginnings. The changing seasons teach us that growth often happens beneath the surface long before it becomes visible. Mighty mountains teach us humility. 

A meadow filled with wildflowers teaches beauty without comparison or competition. Birdsong reminds us that joy often expresses itself without striving, and a star-studded sky floods us with the realization that we are part of something far greater than ourselves.

Perhaps that is why Jesus so often taught outdoors.

He pointed people toward seeds, vineyards, sparrows, sheep, storms, lilies, and fields ready for harvest. Creation itself became a classroom, not because nature is God, but because nature reveals who God is. 

And the heavens declare His glory. The earth displays His creativity. The rhythms of His universe remind us that life was never intended to be lived in constant hurry and deafening noise.

Some of my fondest memories involve no technology, no entertainment, and no elaborate plans. They come from simple moments —immersed in nature, walking, observing, listening, and marveling.

They were moments that made my soul sing for joy. Moments spent in solitude that reminded me who I am and whose I am.

Today many children can navigate a smartphone before they can identify a bird, a wildflower, or a constellation. They know how to scroll but not always how to sit quietly and be still. They know how to consume information but not how to experience wonder.

I think many adults struggle with the same thing, so perhaps the lesson is not only for our children but for us as well.

Maybe we all need to spend less time staring at screens and more time watching sunsets. Maybe we need fewer dinging notifications and more musical birdsongs. Maybe we need fewer opinions and more quiet reflection.

Perhaps we need to rediscover the sacred gift of wonder, because a nourished soul does not happen by accident. It grows when we make room for gratitude. For beauty. For stillness. For prayer.

And For God’s presence.

As time passes, I find myself increasingly convinced that some of the most important things in life cannot be purchased, outsourced or manufactured. Not peace, not wonder, not joy, and certainly not a healthy soul.  

These things must be cultivated, one sacred moment at a time.

So yes, let’s teach children how to read and how to work. Let’s encourage them to contribute and succeed, but we must do more …

Let’s teach them to notice the natural wonders. To appreciate the beauty in a sunrise. Let us teach them to listen to the wind whistling through trees, to marvel at wildflowers blooming where no one planted them. Let’s encourage them to recognize the fingerprints of God in all of creation.

Who knows? Perhaps one day, like me, they may discover that those lessons were among the most valuable of all. After all, we spend years teaching our children how to make a living. Maybe we should spend just as much time teaching them how to build a life.

A life rich in wonder and gratitude. A life attentive to God’s presence. A life with a well-nourished soul.

With each chapter of life, I become more convinced that our greatest influence is not found in our words but in our example. The next generation is watching.

They notice whether we are kind.
Whether we are grateful.
Whether we are at peace.
Whether we make time for what matters most.

If we want our children and grandchildren to experience wonder, perhaps they first need to see it through our eyes. If we want them to value faith, it’s essential they see us practice our faith in ordinary moments. If we want them to nourish their souls, they surely must witness adults who are doing the same. Adults who are a living example.  

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can leave future generations is not wealth, accomplishments, or possessions. Maybe it’s not what we give them, but the example we set before them.

Perhaps it is as simple as showing them a life well lived.

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
—Psalm 19:1