At the Beach

 One summer Scott
and I flew to San Diego to visit our cousin Zelda.  While there, we spent some time at the Pacific Ocean’s shore. 
Just standing at a very small edge of this huge body of water was
awe-inspiring.  Looking outward from my
vantage point on the sand, I could not imagine the immensity of this vast body
of water, stretching for thousands of miles in every direction.  I spent some time wandering along the shore,
always looking out to the water.  The
waves never ceased.  Constantly they
rushed the beach, always the same, yet always different.  They followed one another, curling and
rolling, white spray flying high.  White
gulls skimmed the water’s surface, diving into the tops of the waves to capture
fish for breakfast.  Each wave must have
contained thousands of gallons of moving, roiling, rushing water.  Their strength amazed me.  Even when I stood ankle deep at the very edge
of this ocean, the waves, running to the shore and then back home, pulled at
me, nearly knocking me off my feet. 
“Come out into the deep,” they seemed to say. The locals said, “Always
face the waves.”  I learned to keep my
eyes on the waves and never underestimate their power. 

I tried to discern
a pattern in the way the waves ran at the beach, but the variety was
endless.  They came in intervals—for a
time many smaller waves hit the beach, then bigger waves—wave after
wave—pounded the shore, rolling, breaking, rushing to the sands, and then
retreating.  The sound of the waves was astounding. Right
at my feet was always the soft, sibilant sound of waves running at the beach,
scrubbing the sand, then running back home, pulled by the ocean as a small
child runs back to her mother and father. 
But farther out, where the waves curled on themselves and broke, the
waters boomed and roared, boomed and roared. 
Even from a half mile away their crashing noise echoed.   I closed my eyes and soaked in the sounds of
this majestic ocean.  The early morning
air was cool, and I basked in the amazing experience, wishing I could stay
longer.  I stood, I looked, I listened,
trying to absorb it all.

It occurred to me
that the incredible beauty, immensity, and power of the ocean are, on a small
scale, a reflection of our miraculous God. 
When I stood on the beach and gazed at the ocean, it seemed so enormous,
yet I viewed only an infinitesimal portion of this massive body of water.

So it is with
God.  We are privileged at times to catch
glimpses of God’s immensity, but we see only a small portion.  We glimpse His power, yet we experience just
a tiny glimpse of His majesty.  In Isaiah
45:15, we read, “Truly you are a God who hides himself, O God and Savior of
Israel.”    Paul reminds us how little we
know of our awesome God in I Corinthians 13:12. 
“Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face
to face.  Now I know in part; then I
shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

God, thank you for
the tangible reminders of Your greatness. “The seas have lifted up, O LORD, the seas
have lifted up their voice; the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.  Mightier than the thunder of the great
waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea—the LORD on high is mighty.”           Psalms 93:3-4