When I think of resurrection, I think of a stone on my kitchen counter.
I picked it up at the beach last year. It’s smooth and gray, like most of the rocks on the beach, with one difference:
One hole pierces its middle. Two opened seashells lodge in another empty space like baby bird beaks. It’s pocked with miniscule caves.
Honestly, I’m not sure how it’s still in one piece.
The ocean is a harsh place. I’m fair and prone to sunburn; when I walk on the beach I wear a hat and a long-sleeved shirt. There’s the wind that always skims over the surface of the Pacific, picking up sand and salt in its wake and blowing them on my face. And there’s the ocean itself—the back and forth of the waves that reach for my feet and topple my children if they’re not paying attention.
My first time at the beach as a ten year old, watching the water made me dizzy. The back-and-forth made me feel like the whole earth tilted.
Not surprising then that the litter of sea life on the sand bear witness to the ocean’s terrifying power. The water didn’t just pierce my stone, but batters and bruises millions of shells. Many have holes through their center, more are missing chunks..
And along the reefs, the sand turns into a litter of thousands of shell bits, all colors of the rainbow pounded to oblivion…
I’m over at The Mudroom today, talking about holes and wholeness. Join me?