“Where’s the sand?” the child asked his mother, with a tone of indignation.
I was standing on the pebbly shore of Bellingham’s bay
along with a couple of other contemplative visitors.
I heard the mother try to explain that this beach wasn’t like the beaches down south in Oregon or California, but it’s a beach, just the same.
The kid wasn’t convinced.
I don’t blame him. He probably thought he’d have miles of sandy beach to run, dig his bare toes in and squish them about, spread a beach towel and build a sand castle, play tag with the surf.
I’m the same way. My Father gives me wonderful promises in His Word. I get so excited. My mind conceives a beautiful picture of what my life will look like…according to what I believe God has promised.
Then the real deal happens. What?!
“But God, You said….”
Did God really say? Or did I take God’s Word as my prisoner, and magic-wand a Biblical reality well-suited to my temporal wishes, shrink-wrapped to fit my tiny mind, my ego, my comfort, my own exaltation?
The kid at the beach understood—in his limited, youthful mind—that sand is the thing you find by the ocean.
But one also finds smooth rocks, and drift wood, various kinds of delightful shells, tiny scuttling crabs, screaming gulls, carried aloft on moist sea breezes, islands in the mist, sunlight and shadows, big and small sea vessels, frothy waves, laughing children.
So much more than mere sand.
Do I understand that, too?