I absolutely love to take walks on the beach, especially at sunrise or sunset. Maybe that's because my husband proposed to me at sunset on a beach in California...beautiful! I love the feel of sand beneath my feet, the waves that sneak up and cover my toes, sometimes splashing up to my clothes, and the rising or setting sun glimmering on the water. I look for shells and sea glass, and sometimes collect them. One year my son collected shark teeth...I think he had more than 20, including a Great White's tooth. When you walk on the shore, the treasures are amazing.
One of the things I liked most about the Pink Shell Spa and Resort was that it was on an island, and a skinny island at that. From our room we overlooked the beach and the Gulf of Mexico (for my purposes, the ocean), the sunset side; but when we walked out of our room to the elevator we were looking at the other side of the island...the sunrise side. The best of both worlds: I've never stayed someplace where I could see both sunrise and sunset over the water. "From the rising of the sun til the sun goes down let the name of the Lord be praised..."
And so, we were able to take walks at both sunrise and sunset!
Our first morning walk was on the sunset side, on the gulf. We walked and picked up some shells, then dropped them down into the sand again, deciding we'd take our shells home by taking pictures. On this walk we saw sand dollars...not the usually broken, bleached-white ones you usually find, but living sand dollars. One of them was at least 4 inches across. We "rescued" them by taking them back to the water and placing them in the waves so they'd live another day. I have never seen a live sand dollar before, and may not have seen these if not for Amy's eagle eyes. She spotted the round edge just beneath the sand. True, we were looking for the kind we could take home, but I think our breath was taken away when we realized that these were still alive.
That morning we also saw a brittle star.
Look how dainty and fragile it's arms are! I"ve never seen one of those before.But our best morning walks were dock-side, the sunrise side. We were at the end of the island; only a small state park was past us on the road. So we were able to walk to the park and to the shore in only about 5 minutes, and found a very tranquil spot to watch the sunrise. And walk the shoreline.
Waves lapped the shore peacefully. One-legged birds stood at the edge of the water. A few perched on the "low wake" sign. A bird dove from the sky and picked up a fish in the water, then flew away. And a starfish rested on the shore. We watched for a moment or two, and then walked a bit further, hoping we could walk the whole shoreline around the tip of the island and end up on the gulf side, just down the beach from our hotel. And breakfast. But a tree at the water's edge was in the way, and we retraced our steps. 5 minutes after we left him, we were back at the starfish.
Do you see the trail? in 5 minutes or so, that starfish had moved himself about 18 inches. And yet while we were watching him we hadn't seen him move. If it weren't for the trail he left, we might not have noticed that his position had changed. But the little hair-like thingies (technical term) on his underside undulated back and forth and helped him move back toward the water. Slowly by slowly (one of my favorite Kenyan terms), he moved.
And I thought, sometimes that's the way God works in my life. Sometimes the movement is imperceptible, but slowly by slowly he moves me back to the water, to the living water that flows through him. Without it, I'd die. I need the water, desperately. And sometimes I can only tell I've moved closer when I look back after some time, and see the tracks in the sand. Sometimes, in fact, I might not even realize I'm out of the water until I'm beached high and dry, warming myself in the sun that is not the Son. But then I hear the water lapping on the shore, and by God's grace, I move toward it.
We saw another kind of starfish there, too. A sun starfish. Wild. I had never seen anything like it.
We saw this one our first morning dockside. And we were fascinated. It was, comparatively, huge. From the end of one arm to the end of its opposite, I think it was at least the size of a basketball. We marveled at it for awhile. The next morning when we went back for sunrise we saw it again, and more of its family, at least a dozen I think, of varying sizes. Most if not all of them were in the water. And they were still fascinating, even the second day, even seeing a dozen like the first.We watched, and Amy even took some video, as the sun star "moved." I can't say I actually saw any movement across the sand, but we did see him raise up an arm or two, and we could see the hair-like thingies moving away underneath, and it felt like Jacques Cousteau's Underwater Adventures (okay, his underwater adventures on a slow day), or some National Geographic special. I think both of us could have been content to stay and watch for awhile, maybe all morning, as he made his way back to the sea.
But the thing that really fascinated me most was the sun star track. I wish I had a picture. I thought I had taken one, but I can't find it. Amy thought she had taken one too. Oh well. This one from Google will have to do, but it's not quite the same as the one we saw:
Do you notice the "claw marks" behind the starfish? The ones we saw were deep. Deep. And they didn't look to me like pushing off marks, or like a trail dragging behind as he moved. No, the one we saw looked like that sun star was clawing and clinging to the shore with all his might, wanting to stay right where he was. Not wanting to go back to the sea. Clinging to the "safety" of where he was, even though it was not safety at all. Even though there he was a "sitting goose" for any predator bird (or human) that came along. I'm like that Sun Star, desperately clinging to the shore, to what I know, or think is safe. And I'm really not at all ready to tell God to take me into deep waters. I'm generally content upon the shores. I'm clinging to the shore because I'm afraid of what's in those deep waters.
And only when I stop and look can I admit that this shore isn't safe either. But I'm clinging to the sand. I want to ask God to take me deeper than my feet can wander, where my faith will be made stronger, but oh, that's scary. And the best I can hope for is to say with the parent in the Bible, "Yes, I believe. Help me in my unbelief."
