The Tide

The tide was coming in. And after two solid weeks of cleaning, cockroach-killing, painting, decorating, breaking down boxes and trying to cram all of my earthly possessions from the Tampa home into the new North Carolina home, it was a glorious site. We have a beach here. And a Target. It will be okay.

My toes squished into the sand as I watched my two littlest kids dig in with their little plastic shovels, hopeful that some sort of treasure would be unearthed. The gazillion broken shells they were finding apparently qualified. I could tell by the victorious squeals. My seven-year-old daughter, Meredith, splashed in the ocean with her Dad. Just seeing the two of them play, light-hearted, with no task or any agenda but to enjoy each other, gave me a peace that's hard to describe. All in the world is right again. After that crazy, emotional military move, all is well.

And then came the blood-curdling scream. Right in the middle of my pretend "Journey-to-Atlantis" Beach Resort commercial, of which I was the star, there was screaming. It was frantic and terror-filled. It was Meredith.

Startled, I stood up from my chair and watched my husband rush to her, and I could piece together her words, saturated in the accents of trauma and desperation, over the crash of the waves.
 
"Oh no! Daddy! My ring! It's gone forever!"

Meredith held out her left hand, holding it at the wrist by her right, as if it had been bitten off by a Great White shark. But her hand was intact. All the digits were there. What was missing was her most prized possession, a ring that her Dad had bought for her during a special moment on our recent trip. It was her cherished "Daddy ring," and in one watery maneuver of the ocean, it was gone.

Eric embraced her and immediately they started to scour the sandy ocean bottom around the area where they had just been playing. Understanding the urgency, my son and I both ran to the water and began searching as well. The four of us worked diligently and with a silent seriousness. We knew what it meant to her. We knew what it would do to her to lose it. We knew from the countless times she had asked Eric or me to hold it while she went to play so that she wouldn't misplace it. We knew because of the way she beamed as she told our new friends and neighbors of its significance. We knew because of the uncharacteristic-for-a-seven-year-old responsibility she had shown in protecting it at all costs. We knew.

And so we clamored and dug and searched and sifted with the sound of quiet sobs and the surge of waves breaking in the background.

I prayed, with confidence, knowing that God can do anything. "God, you parted the Red Sea. You made the lame walk. You breathed life into death. You rose again. And I know you are a loving God who doesn't want to break the heart of my daughter, who, by the way, loves you...a lot." With each swell I expected full well to look down and see that ring...not because it was likely in any realm of the physical world, but because God loves to surprise us, and He is capable, and loving. I KNEW I would find it and I rehearsed in my mind the conversation I would have with Meredith about the miracles of God and how much He loves us after I pulled it triumphantly out of the water and put it back on her wet, sandy, little hand. I just knew.

I knew for the first 5 minutes as I analyzed every rock and shell under the water by my feet as the waves pushed them forward and backward. And I knew for the next 5 minutes. God was teaching me to wait on Him. I knew for the five minutes after that...still. My husband began to talk with Meredith about the trip they would make together to go pick out a new one. I saw him start to pack up our belongings on the beach. And I still knew. "Watch this, guys. God is about to show us how amazing He is." I said it under my breath, knowing.

"It's time we wrap it up, Honey."

I kept looking, silently protesting my husband's willingness to throw in the towel.

"Honey, we need to go."

Reluctantly, while still actively scouring the moving debris below the water as I went,  I walked up onto dry land. But, God... I prayed one final time, "Lord, will you please do this one thing for me today? I know you can do it. I have full faith in your ability. You tell us to have faith. Shouldn't my faith be rewarded?  Please, Lord." 

His answer came very clearly and very lovingly, "My plan is different and better than yours today. Trust me."

Oh, the power and beauty of God's voice; The voice that calls us to do what makes no sense in the moment, the voice that stops us in our tracks because we are headed in the wrong direction when we are bound and determined to push on straight ahead, the voice that takes us right back to the greatness and trustworthiness of His love alone when we think we've cracked the code on His currency of faith and blessings.

It was a reminder to me of God's nature, and mine; that the things I cling to, hope for, and anticipate in this life are often not at all the things God intends for me to be scouring the ocean floor for. He has great things in store for us, but rarely are they just sitting at our feet. God cares too much about developing our faith, teaching us about patience, trust, keeping us focused on Himself as the prized possession of our lives. And yet every day in my world, admittedly, is like an Olympics of clinging...to my children, my health, my possessions, my friends, order in my home, my appearance, my ministry, "happiness"... to everything other than Him.

I've always been in awe of Paul's willingness to let-go of the things of this world and to embrace loss as a way to walk more closely with the Lord. Paul SUFFERED. My goodness, did he suffer. He would eventually relinquish his very life to the cause of Christ. And yet he was an unwavering example of absolute faith in the Lord. Paul knew so well that loss did not equal a God who didn't hear or a God who didn't care. Paul knew, in fact, that suffering and loss often meant quite the opposite:

Five times I received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods, once I was pelted with stones, three times I was shipwrecked, I spent a night and a day in the open sea I have been constantly on the move. I have been in danger from rivers, in danger from bandits, in danger from my fellow Jews, in danger from Gentiles; in danger in the city, in danger in the country, in danger at sea; and in danger from false believers. I have labored and toiled and have often gone without sleep; I have known hunger and thirst and have often gone without food; I have been cold and naked. Besides everything else, I face daily the pressure of my concern for all the churches.

2 Corinthians 11:23-28

But still...:

...we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverence, character, and character, hope. And hope does not dissapoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who he has given us."

Rejoice in our sufferings? Really? Yes. As crazy as it sounds, yes. Paul knew and encourages us with the truth that God's grace is sufficient for us in all of our losses and pains. The development of our faith is eternally important while the pleasures and securities and even physical comforts of this world are as fleeting as the shifting sand. That truth should enable and empower us to live boldly without a dreaded fear of loss and pain. And when loss does happen, and it will, God's all-encompassing grace will fill us up, as it did Paul, until we are able to praise Him...yes....praise Him, that He cares enough about us to say to us, "My plan is different and better than yours today."

Therefore everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them, may be compared to a wise man who built his house on the rock. "And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock.

Matthew 7:24-25