In life today, we see the obvious, miss the miraculous

Imagine you’re a clam in late spring, buried 10 inches deep in whey-colored Alaskan beach sand.

No human eye has spied this isolated strand of beach, nor sullied its pristine condition. Do things get any better than this? Not if you’re an Alaskan clam.

Besides, what predator would be perceptive enough to deduce that it’s you — and not a doorknocker — 10 inches beneath the surface, lodged in a protective cocoon of alluvium?

One caution. Mother Nature tends to see only the big picture. Plus, she can be one cruel mother herself or, at best, an indifferent one.

She’s quite content to place you in an idyllic setting and then pull the rug out from under you. But, you must realize, this isn’t about you. As a mere pawn —or prawn? — you’ve been placed on this beach to have an impact on “the rest of the story,” as Paul Harvey used to say.

You may be a clam’s clam, but you’re still, well, a clam — and prospective aperitif. Very likely you’ll be dug up in due time and eaten by a famished grizzly, bleary from an eight-month hibernation bender.

Does an Alaskan clam’s life count for anything? It does. It’s an example of Mama Nature enriching her muckheap. Everything contributes to the greater good, to our cosmic chowder.

Being the narcissist that I am, I wouldn’t blame Mr. Clam for pitching a fit.

“This isn’t the way things should be!” he says. “It’s not fair!”

I hear ya, pal.

But, according to Mother Nature’s scales, one 1,500-pound grizzly, by all conceivable measures, outweighs, outranks and outvalues a one-pound clam. Mother Nature grades on a curve.

Fortunately for humans, we fare better than clams. We don’t have to trade blows with a heartless Mother Nature. She can, after all, be crabby — not to mention clammy.

(OK, enough seafood references!)

We answer to God, who actually tells us this: “For I know the plans I have for you … plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Seriously?

By a country mile, it beats being welcomed to spring sunshine by a grizzly’s claw, yellowed incisors and stupefying breath. We’d tumble hopelessly into a burbling cauldron of gastric juices and acid reflux. Yuck!

Alaskan clams don’t have much to look forward to. We humans? Well, that’s a different story.

There’s something in our experience more profoundly commanding than a pitiless Mother Nature. And there’s more here than meets the eye.

“A spiritual kingdom lies all about us, enclosing us, embracing us, altogether within reach of our inner selves, waiting for us to recognize it,” wrote 20th century theologian A.W. Tozer in his book, “The Pursuit of God.” “God Himself is here waiting for our response to His presence. This eternal world will come alive to us the moment we begin to reckon upon its reality.”

Really? An unseen world exists for a dissolute old mollusk like myself?

Indeed.

Not only do we humans usually choose not to use a modicum of our limited time on this beach to inquire about this kingdom, but we also refuse to waste time with God. We sometimes write him off entirely — and blithely.

Then comes that inevitable day when we’re unceremoniously dug up by a claw and crunched to smithereens.

Oops. What was that thing we were going to search out before our time on Earth was finished? Too late. All previous options no longer exist.

In his book, “Miracles,” Eric Metaxas writes: “Our existence is an outrageous and astonishing miracle, one so startlingly and perhaps so disturbingly miraculous that it makes any miracle like the parting of the Red Sea pale in such insignificance that it almost becomes unworthy of our consideration, as though it were something done easily by a small child, half asleep.”

Hello! Anybody there? We see the obvious and miss the miraculous. Who of us takes time to think the thoughts of Metaxas? Precious few.

Our world today is wide and shallow. Very shallow. We’d be much better off narrow and deep.

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Tuesdays.