Lessons from the Beach II

The following comes from sitting on the beach watching two children playing (described in the last Brushstroke).

Lessons from the Beach II

“Till he appeared, and the soul felt its worth.” O Holy Night

The grandmother eventually returned to her seat and the brother and sister went on with their games in surf. Each time they came up on shore, though, they looked over at where the grandmother and their parents were sitting. It was as if they were waiting and hoping for something. Then, it happened. 

The Dad rose from his seat, grabbed a Boogie Board and came and played alongside his children. The squeals of delight when he stood and began to head their way were almost ear-splitting, and the young boy did something like an Irish Jig until he lost his balance and fell into the sea. The next few moments were pure heaven for the children, and it filled my soul with joy and anguish to watch. Most things of authentic beauty do that.

We all do such a good job appearing and sounding independent. We live life for so long with an “I’ve got this” mentality we almost fool ourselves into believing it. The fact is, deep down, each of us looks off in hopeful expectation that maybe, just maybe, we’ll be joined in the surf. We do it on Sundays sitting in our pew. We do it when we’re alone in the car, or on a walk. We do it countless other times, whenever we let our self-reliant guards down. 

In the end, I don’t think any of us wants to swim alone. We long for God’s presence and, while we may not squeal like a child or do an Irish Jig, our hearts delight whenever we feel God’s presence swimming beside us. 

May this be such a day.

Lessons from the Beach I

In honor of my sixtieth birthday, I’m taking a one-on-one trip with each of my four children, and the youngest chose a spring vacation trip to the beach. Sitting by the sea, enjoying the sun after a cold, wet spring, I watch as a brother and sister play with their Boogie Boards in the surf. The waves are almost non-existent, but they’re having a ball. 

Standing by is a woman who I think is their grandmother. She, too, enjoys watching the two playing in the sea, but each time they come up on shore, then run and jump back in the surf, she reaches for them. She longs to connect, to hug and kiss them, but they’re too caught up in their games to comply.

It’s completely understandable, but I feel for the grandmother. By the looks of things, she’s the one who’s made the trip possible and longs for a little connection (and appreciation). Like me, she longs to connect with her babies, but her grandchildren are more interested in their games than hugging. 

It made me think how God might feel a lot of the time. Watching us, delighting in our jumping into waves, thinking up games, and running back and forth until we fall into bed at the end of the day, He’s the one who’s made the whole thing possible. God reaches out to touch us, longing to connect, but, too often, we can’t be bothered. Too much to do, we profess. So little time. 

Like a grandparent, I’m sure God understands the way of youth, but longs for us, still. Just as I finish such thoughts, the boy runs up and almost tackles his grandmother with a wet, sandy hug. She doesn’t mind the wet, or the sand. She closes her eyes and smiles deeply. The boy smiles too, then runs back to play. 

May we learn to do the same.

Being Remarkable

Many mornings, I begin my day in the company of some remarkable people. I’m not sure what makes them remarkable. It’s certainly not their backgrounds. Everyone comes from a different place and none of those places are remarkable. It’s certainly not their experiences because many of them have lived remarkable lives for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it’s the fact that these folks see their imperfections and are willing to talk about them, but I think what makes the remarkable is something else.

On the wall, across where I sit, is a print of a Rembrandt painting of Jesus. It’s one of those paintings where the subject looks at you regardless of where you’re sitting. The eyes are not eyes of judgement, they’re more searching, more understanding, and whenever I look up at the painting, particularly when people are sharing some of the hard stuff, Christ seems to be listening with the kind of understanding for which most of us can only pray.  

Today, because it’s Maundy Thursday, I imagine Christ leaving the confines of the frame and sitting among us. At one point, He stands and goes into the kitchen, fills a bowl of water, and grabs a roll of paper towels. When he returns, he slowly and deliberately works his way around the circle. Taking off our sneakers and sandals, he begins to wash our feet. He doesn’t look up from his work except when someone shares something particularly real. When that happens, he looks up as if to say, “I get it.” 

It is then I realize what makes this group remarkable. It’s not the people sitting in the circle. It’s the one kneeling at their feet.