We just returned from a week at ocean’s side. It was much needed and I marvel at the gifts that came through the days with my husband’s family, through walks by the water, naps in a hammock, time to read and write in my journal.
The first day out on the beach I could barely walk. So many sea shells, broken and blistering in the sun, hurting my feet, distracting me from just simple sauntering along the ocean’s edge. This is how I arrive at the beach every year. The weeks leading up to the end of June never fail to wind me up into a complete frenzy. If I didn’t have this week built into my year, I shudder to think where I’d land. A whirling dervish, a spinning top, I get to land on soft sand and buoyant waves, letting my weary soul spin slowly down to where I can listen and be soul-quiet.
It was painfully evident that first day, as I walked among the shells…THIS is where life had gotten to—a bazillion gajillion details of daily living, caring, loving, making, erranding, upkeeping, idea-ing, and not-enough-time-ing. My eyes darted from shell to shell like a nervous hamster (not sure where that image comes from 😳), impeding my ability to walk forward. Back bent over as I walked, hunched to attend to every detail, shoulders perched to pick and choose, I suddenly realized how uncomfortable and tiring this was…this extreme attention to the details of life. How did I get to a place where I felt compelled to attend to every one and every thing? In shells and in life, I have a soft spot for the broken ones, a love for seeing beauty in chaos, a hunger for seeking and finding lovely colors and shapes. But it all gets to be too much for me, and I realize I’ve been bent over for way too long, and I’m in dire need of gazing at the horizon, at the vast ocean of Gods’s love and grace for me, for my family, for the world.
Do you get to these places too? I often chastise myself for how weary I am, for how strung-by-a-thread I feel, for all the shells I’m NOT able to tend to, or to find, or to turn over and really look at. I get stuck in the thinking that the bent-over life is the one we are called to. It takes coming to the beach to hear a gentle roar that speaks a different word or song. It often requires stepping away from the busy shell bank of daily life, so that my Father can left my chin to His dear face and I can once again start to relax and see in His eyes where all the brokenness will be made whole, all the undone will be complete, and where all the beauty resides. Shoulders lower, legs stop spinning, back straightens, and I begin to walk again, slowly, deliberately, less distracted by the crunching at my feet.
To walk among the shells with my eyes fixed on the horizon requires effort and daily tending. I’ll be bent over again I’m sure, nose in the broken and beautiful bits. But for now, home from the beach, my heart is still and my gaze transfixed on the One who holds all the details.
It is my hope and desire to write more here. Yet I’m not wanting to use Facebook or Instagram as an announcement page. To you who are already following my blog, thank you for reading. My joy is to share some of the broken and beautiful bits of life and creativity with you.💗