Stretching dunes, untamed waters, sunrises from the deck.
Magnificent.
With a chipped, heavy coffee mug in hand, and hair tousled by the Atlantic’s salty breeze, I felt dwarfed by the beauty of God’s creation.
Our few vacation days were glorious and hard-won: saving money, wrangling schedules, working ahead to beat deadlines. We congregated in a tall, weathered cottage, relaxing as we relished the ease of togetherness.
Some delighted in rounds of Go Fish, others napped, or slipped behind the pages of a book. We took turns on the porch, mesmerized by the crashing waves, our legs dangling from oversized Adirondacks.
Daily breakfasts were up for grabs, although the coffee pot worked overtime. Lunches were plucked from coolers stuffed with cold cuts, chips, fruit. Dinner? A sweet benediction, as tanned faces filled the kitchen: reaching, nibbling, laughing, chopping, sizzling, and grilling our way to the feast. Folded napkins weighted by mismatched forks, dinner plates circling the table—a hubbub of noise and happy confusion.
Between breakfast and lunch, we became pack mules, single file: schlepping chairs, buckets, towels, tents, umbrellas, and coolers up, up, up, and over the wind-sculpted dunes—Don’t trip!—dodging spiked beach grass and sharp driftwood.
We hopped tenderly across the scorching sands, relieved to sink into the cool, rugged shoreline.
I bowed to inspect the ocean’s trinkets: shells that scampered across the sand with each lapping wave, a bloom of whisper pink jellyfish jiggling alongside translucent ones, a child’s forsaken shovel.
Our newborn granddaughter napped atop a towel, shaded by the tent, as our grandson crouched in tidepools, studying a school of teensy fish.
Come on, Nonnie, he said. Let’s build sandcastles.
Yes, I said.
The sea is surreptitious, guarding all that lies beneath. How softly the waters pulse toward shore, bidding us to enter the dance. Just a little deeper, only a bit further. Quite suddenly, white crests emerge, tip, and roar; we are surprised to be swimming in deep waters: untamed, ravenous, wild.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And therein lies its charm: the mystery of the feral, the unknown.
The ocean is powerful, beautiful, and dangerous. Never turn your back on the sea. How foolish to swim carelessly in waves that creep and pull, retreating to the fury hiding within the deep. Enjoy the ocean, yes, but be cautious.
Although its brutish beauty is magnetic, the sea remains savage.
This summer, I jumped into crashing waves, chest deep and chin up, laughing, squealing with my daughter-in-law.
After a time, as the waves lulled, we relaxed, chatting lazily, floating with our heads tilted skyward, eyes closed. My back was against the deep as I carelessly lolled and bobbed, succumbing to the comfort of rhythmic waves.
And then the wind picked up, and I saw my daughter-in-law’s eyes widen as her mouth formed a perfect “O”. I turned as a rogue wave curled, surged, and buried me. I was catapulted, flung upside down.
And there I was, a rag doll held by the talons of the sea, its Herculean grip an impossible fight. My lungs were fire, the pressure rising as my mind screamed for air. When I finally emerged, there was no time to breathe before another wave upended me.
Pitched again, I struggled, swallowing briny water, terrorized.
And then my daughter-in-law reached for my hand and lifted me.
Kristin, are you okay? she said.
I pushed hair from my face, breathless.
I thought I was drowning, I gasped.
The rest of our family, scattered along the beach, had noticed nothing. Several tossed a frisbee, another sat reading, toeing the sand. A few more spritzed sunscreen on their arms, laughing as they stretched over toasty sands. I could hear the echo of their voices, talking over the crashing tide.
Have a good swim? one asked as I reached for my towel and thumped breathless on the sand.
By all appearances, I had simply been frolicking in the ocean that I love.
Now, I understand.
Drowning is fast. Silent.
How we treat the church is how we treat Jesus, for the church is His body.
-Joel Beeke
I am drowning, she says, eyes filling.
This? A familiar conversation with many.
The pattern goes like this:
forsake church,
life implodes,
a gush of tears,
Fix me! Help me! Save me! I am drowning!
a temporary return to Sunday’s gathering.
Until…
The ocean beckons, the world woos, and the cycle begins afresh.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Meanwhile, her life continues to unravel, thread by thread by thread.
I gently remind her that to grow in faith and to thrive, we must anchor ourselves to God, His Word, and the church. Our souls flourish beneath the steady submission to the preaching and teaching of Scripture, as we come alongside and minister to one another.
She nods, sniffling into a tissue, and returns the next Sunday.
But the following Lord’s Day?
An empty seat. She is in the wind, again.
Although the excuses vary, it is the same song, different verse.
Sore throat, a daughter’s soccer game, relatives in town, fatigue, a cookout, catching up on yard work, cleaning out the pantry, a family birthday party, a once-in-a-lifetime concert, a weekend getaway, impending rain.
Flimsy excuses that yield flimsy living and maim the body of Christ.
She is drowning, unwilling to grab my hand.
Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.
Hebrews 10: 23-25
The Palest Ink 