Marching toward September

Atlantic City in March and it was sunny and mid-sixties. I should have been surprised, but I wasn't. Much about that weekend should have been surprising, instead I found they were just true. Right. Unreally real.

On Saturday morning I made my way to the beach which was mostly deserted, and wandered close to the edge of the waves. Layers of shells stacked upon each other by the tide entertained me as I searched for pretty treasures. Then right before me I saw it. I knew it had been waiting for me. The conch shell was bigger than my hands as they cupped around it. I turned it and traced my fingers along it's gray shades. It was perfectly whole. I closed my eyes and raised it to my ear. The sound from the center of it's curves matched the sound of the sea beside me.

I have never quite lost my childhood wonder in that God has packed the sound of the sea in a shell I could take home with me, so that whenever I wanted to remember, all I had to do was take it off the shelf, put it up to my ear, close my eyes and listen. The memory would return, my senses pulling me back to the shore.

I brushed the sand off my ear, returning to the present. Then as I sat surrounded by the rhythms of the sea, my heart opened itself to hear a Word about my experience. It became instead a Word about my journey. What are you saying Lord? It had been a long time since I had asked for an explanation, instead I asked for the grace of acceptance. So when the Lord began to explain things to me I felt surprised, then afraid, then full of wonder. I realized that what I was experiencing was very unusual. God never owes us an explanation. But for whatever reason, in His goodness, He gave me one. Over a period of two hours He helped me to see, to know, to understand, and made way for acceptance to come.

He alone can wrap the pain of the past in peace.

He alone can wrap the future in the hope of blessing.

It's time to write. That He has made clear. But I feel stuck. Picking up a shell is one thing. There I hear beautiful echoes longing for the sea. Rereading the journals I pulled out of the back corner of my attic is quite another. I opened the box, saw their covers, closed the box and stuffed it under my desk--my stomach turned inside out. I don't want to remember how bad it was. Why must I remember the darkness? I grieve for the girl who wrote those pages.

I know the answer. It is in the darkness that light shines brightest. I must write about that light. "Only speak love. Replace all else with forgiveness." These were His words to me.

Give me strength Lord. Give me words with power to bless and bring You glory.

Soon all of my dread and anxiety, my urge to escape to other things, my mixed motives and my self-defenses will curl up in quiet submission and I will rest in obedience and gratitude for this commission. He will bend me to His will as I lean into Him. Then we will float in a warm September ocean. The salt water stinging my wounds as it heals them. The gentle waves rocking my soul to stillness as He calls my core to purpose. Then we will write.

Maybe someday, you'll get to read it.