Deep is my joy as I walk this shore once combed in my youth, picking shells from shimmering pools, some whole, some not, each a treasure that no one else has held before. Breathing in the salty air I pause to watch the surf rush against the jagged rocks. With each crash I feel the cool spray and gentle caress of receding foam.
I think of God, as he walks the storm worn shores of history. He saw my life, my hopes, my dreams. He saw decisions made that led to me to the rocks. He watched the unmerciful tide of consequence as it laid its awful blows to my soul, sin’s punishing waves, the crash, destruction, my broken shell.
Even these pieces of shell broken against the craggy shore seem precious with thoughts of life once carried within now remnant shards. The struggle for life, the instinct to survive, yet the battle lost with choices made, driven by storms and the force of repercussion’s tide.
In the rush of fears realized, I fall to my knees in anguish. With tear stained eyes lifted heavenward, it is there I see the seagull soaring high and hear her soothing song. Then does my spirit rise and soar to heights unknown as I consider how God has searched for that in which only he finds value. That he treasures in wisdom what I destroyed in foolishness is a mystery I cannot comprehend, I can only accept.
It is then my heart feels him bending low. With uncontained joy he finds my broken soul, and as he collects what remains I can hear him say “Look Son, what I have found. Let us mend this broken shell and bring it life again. Not just life, but life eternal. Though he will again face violent storms, we will be with him. We will soften the blows,and direct the waves to carry him again to safer shores. We will teach him to trust us through the storms that pass over all seas, all souls, and when it is time we will bring him to his place of rest, where he will need his shell no more.”
The Author (Jesus)
Jesus, the author
Like the pen, when I awake each day, you lift me up, to write another page.
You direct my steps and make them straight, as with lines on a page.
You turn me as you will, I am firmly in your hand.
Though I am pressed in your hold, I know you will not crush me.
And when the day is done, you lie me down to rest,
with the promise that tomorrow, you will pick me up again.
To write a new page, a new chapter, until the book of my life is complete,
when my ink is gone, and you lie me down for the last time,
and speak the words “it is finished.”
So what will the message of my story be?
Will it tell of how I tried to have my way, as if the pen can control the hand?
As if clay can control the potter?
Or, will my story be about the author?
Will he say of me in sorrow, “I have completed this story, though it was with great difficulty.”
Or will he be able to rejoice and say, “I so enjoyed this pen, and better still, he left others like him behind, for I have more stories I wish to tell.”