She grabs his hand. “Come with me, Daddy!” He gives in without second thought.
She leads him down the beach, splashing through little pools of water, leaning on his arm, pulling him this way and that.
They stay that way, hand in hand, for most the long walk to the pier.
I follow behind with boys grown tall, enjoying the snapshot of my girl and her Dad.
Remembering what it’s like to be that little girl, in love with her wonderful Daddy.
One of my boys wraps bare fingers around sand crabs. He laughs when tiny toothpick legs dash across his skin. He loves to hold God’s creatures in his hands, to show and tell.
Another one tries 20-question style to extract from my brain our plans for the rest of this day and the next. I don’t know all the answers, but he’s not convinced of that. I encourage him to chill–to just go with it, and it frustrates him. These phrases are not my norm. This is my vaca-vocab.
The littlest wants to make sure I lay eyes on every seagull overhead, that funny red house up the beach, shiny shells in the sand, and that big wave he plans to ride one day. He only wants me to experience every excitement with him. He doesn’t care that there are 4 other family members vying for my attention.
We’re living the beach life today, where gifts roll in like waves at the shore. Like waves of grace, one might say.
Every minute of this feels priceless. Except the exhausted minutes. Those are a dime a dozen.
My senses are on overdrive. This ocean’s a giant beauty. A feisty, beautiful giant.
Nothing on earth stills me like waves at sea. Nothing overwhelms like this blue water touching sky, morning, or moonlight.
I swell with hope here. I dream. I’m filled with both longing and contentment. I’m home somehow.
The sea has a voice, and it speaks to me. It tells me to still more. To learn the strength of quietness, the art of sitting down on the inside when life swirls fast around me. The sea reminds me, He’s got this. Millions and billions of waves remind.
It tells me to embrace my life more purposefully, but with open hands. None of it belongs to me, yet I get to play my part.
I stand before this vastness, in wonder. Wonder and worship and a heart of praise. God, you are good.
I ponder my clinging–my closed, tight fingers. These human hands are tired, and I lay it all down again. Because when I pretend all these gifts are mine, then I fear the loss of them.
I promise the maker of the sea I’ll learn to travel light. I’ll learn to live with hands wide open.
He gathers the waters of the sea into jars; He puts the deep into storehouses. Let all the earth fear the Lord; let all the people of the world revere Him. (Psalm 33:7-8)
So beautiful! So much so I need to write this down and keep it close. Thank you my friend for speaking to my heart today.
” It tells me to still more. To learn the strength of quietness, the art of sitting down on the inside when life swirls fast around me. The sea reminds me, He’s got this.”
To live with hands wide open. Beautiful.
Angela, this is beautiful! I am right with you–I love the ocean. Several times this year, I’ve listened to speakers ask listeners to close their eyes and envision a place where they feel close to God, and every time, I think of the ocean. Sitting on my surfboard and floating up and down in the swells. Standing on the beach in awe of the majesty of the waves. Its incredible. I think of the verse in Psalms (139, maybe?), where Scripture proclaims that the thoughts of God for me number more than the sands of the sea. Wow. The thought makes me speechless. Wow. Thank you for sharing!
I love this, ” I swell with hope here.” Beautiful, Angela. I am praying that you will take that peace and rest that true vacation resting can be and carry it forward, remembering the peace and the power that swelling with hope can provide!
This is me: ” I lay it all down again. Because when I pretend all these gifts are mine, then I fear the loss of them.” I have thought that too! Touched my soul! Thank you!