I’ve been going “to the beach” for a long time.
As a child I remember visiting North Myrtle Beach, SC almost every year. We went there to visit family and enjoy the ocean.
During my high school summers, I worked at the Jersey shore — where by the end of August the water was warm enough to enter!
Linda and I lived for a year and a half on Grand Cayman Island in the Caribbean.
As our children grew, we visited frequently my parents in North Myrtle Beach where they had moved following Dad’s retirement from USSteel.
For the last ten years or so, we’ve enjoyed several vacations in Destin, Florida.
Linda rarely goes “to the beach.” She is always with us, or with me, but it’s a rare day when she actually puts her feet in the sand and sits along the shore watching the sea roll in.
During our last visit, she made it to the beach three times during the ten days we were there. That’s some kind of record. She hasn’t turned into a beach bum. She’s a grandmother, and it was the presence of grandchildren that drew her to the beach, not the sand and salt.
Our first day at the beach, as my son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren waded in chest-deep water, two dark shadows passed by only a few feet in front of us. They were sting rays, gracefully gliding through the water as effortlessly as a hawk appears to ride the currents of the air.
On another day, we saw something I don’t remember ever seeing before — jellyfish eggs. I’ve seen jellyfish. But I’ve never seen the egg sacs, strung together in necklaces of sometimes twenty “beads” or more. It was fascinating. Gratefully, wherever those eggs hatched, it wasn’t in the waters where we saw them.
One afternoon, my son and I played golf — or, to be more accurate, he played golf and I chased after a little white ball while carrying with me an instrument made of steel.
As we walked up the fairway, I headed off into a marshy area located just to the right of the short grass. I was looking for one of those little white balls.
I couldn’t find it. But as I turned to leave, standing there on one leg, almost immediately in front of me, was a huge blue heron.
In truth I don’t know if it was larger than other herons. But for me it was “huge,” because I’d never been this close to one before.
Mr. Heron (it may have been Mrs. Heron — but how do you tell?) looked at me sideways, out of one eye, and I stood perfectly still, thoroughly enjoying our visit. After thirty seconds or so, I won the staring contest; Mr. Heron blinked, then excused himself, took five or six giant steps, and having gained the necessary momentum, lifted off into the air, flying away.
I never found my golf ball, but I’m glad I’m a slicer.
Sting rays, jellyfish eggs, and a beautiful blue heron. The magnificence of an expansive blue sky spread out over an endless ocean. The wonder of a crab living in his tiny shell, plus the exotic beauty of a palm tree.
The creativity of the Creator’s image bearers, given the ability to arrange flowers, shrubs, trees and grasses in such ways as to help turn a wilderness into a beautiful garden.
Put all of these things together, plus ten thousand more that go almost unnoticed, and you find yourself agreeing with the psalmist that all of creation does indeed speak the Creator’s praise.
Pastor Caines