Sunday, March 15, 2009

Oceans of Mercy

The sea today is disturbed. Not angry, but agitated. The waves are rolling in forcefully, attaining greater heights. Less sand remains visible, the ocean seeking to hide as much of the beach as possible. Every few seconds the ocean surges with new strength towards my feet. It is cloaked in foam and froth as if a child dumped a lifetime supply of bubble bath into the waters. The ocean is more gray and white today than blue. Clarity is missing, shrouded in a veil of mystery. God what is stirring your waters with such passion? The waters are yearning. God is yearning. The waves seem to crash with frustrated longing as if they have waited a long time for the desire of their heart. Today they must voice their desire with added volume. This is not an intimate invitation like the estuaries of the Gulf; it is a passionate plea. Come, my Love, let me sweep you away. The ocean is desperate. It surges and retreats ten, fifteen feet at a time. It seems to be gathering strength and resolve, inching closer and closer with each passing moment to where I am. Soon I will no longer be allowed to stay neutral. I must move further beyond the reach of the waves or allow them to overtake me. I find myself not wanting to move.

I cherish the days when God brings the waves to me, when His sovereignty overcomes my weakness, my inability to move, and He brings His heart to my own. It is in those days that I have the choice: pull back on the beach and reject His washings out of guilt, or allow them to come, drowning me in an ocean of love, though undeserving I will always remain. His mercy is as breathless as the ocean view before my eyes.

Then there are the days when the water is calmer, gently lapping upon the shore, calling, inviting. The ocean of love awaits, always present, never straying more than a few feet away. It is waiting for me to get up out of my chair and walk towards the water. It meets me as I come.

Some days are easier to come than others. I don’t know why. Some days it only takes a gentle prod and my feet go racing down to the water’s edge and beyond. Other days I remain glued to my chair, the stretch of sand beneath my feet as vast as an ocean to cross. I hold back. I don’t know why. I want to go. The sand is scorching hot. It is misery to stay away. The water holds what I need, refreshment and rest. Yet I fear its depths of love, judge myself deserving of the shore. So I stay put, until the water finds me in my stubbornness or I can no longer bear to stay away. There comes a point where I will go even if the water obliterates me. I would rather die within its clutch than live a thousand days scorched upon the shore.

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