Washing the tiles in my front garden I perceive that the bricklayer incorporated subtle and gradual undulations. It is not flat, not flat in the way that an American bricklayer would do it, using a level with a bubble to ensure utter flatness.
No. Gentle undulations are the pattern, so that water washing the tiles will flow from back to front and out into the street. Such undulations are too gradual and too minute for most humans to even detect.
Most people will think, “this patch of tile is flat.” When it will not be. But some will notice: “this patch of tile is not flat.” There is not a word to characterize the undulations, as the undulations are too broad, too gradual, too subtle, for most people to even perceive.
But I sense that an ant, walking on these interminable tiles, knows that there are heights, and there are easy downslopes, and the undulations are akin to the rising and fall of actual terrain. The world is different for an ant.
I can imagine that to an ant, these tiles, which seem so smooth to me, are marred by pits and holes and rough sections. Such is an ant’s world.
Then I imagine how we perceive our world. We perceive heights and depths and holes and rough sections.
What does God perceive? Every minute imperfection? Or flawless endless smoothness?