Drowning

Do you ever feel like God wants to tell you something? Like he’s putting a megaphone to your ear so you can actually hear what he’s been trying to tell you all along? Well this past week has been surround sound for me. Everything – my devotions, my bible readings, conversations, youth events, emails from friends – has been focused on evaluating how deep my love for God actually is, and sharing this with others…
As I read of a friend’s dramatic spiritual change, I couldn’t help but look at my own life and wonder where my passion had gone. I know I love and serve God…but it definitely isn’t in the “newlywed” phase anymore. It has been becoming more routine, and I wonder, why have I lost the excitement that once was there. Has God changed? And I know it is me…
So this past week has been spent searching His Word – reminding myself of the God I love and serve and why nothing else in this life really matters.
As I was rummaging thru old stuff - as I am apt to do from time to time - I found a story written a couple years back. I hope you are challenged...

drowning

It was a gift of a summer day. The sun dangled from its perch in the sky, listening attentively to the laughter of her patrons below as the scavenging cry of the gull pierced the air in an endless search for their next morsel of forgotten treasure. The shoreline held within her hands the abundance of tourists and vacationers, while the water rolled faithfully, wave after wave, kissing the feet of the children that innocently befriended her.
Weaving a path of footprints around the sandcastles and clusters of family and friends he walked. He had often traveled this stretch, having been raised along these shores. Each day threaded through new faces and scenery – but these he deferred to the fiber of the familiar. He took no notice of the crowds – they came and they went – repetitious in arrival and forgotten in departure. He was certain they would have their fun and move on and that they were more than comfortable in the mutual silence.
He didn’t come to the beach to engage in conversation - the most exchanged was perhaps a curious glance or a polite nod of acknowledgement. No, this was his time to find peace. It was the fragmented moment where he could ignore the buzz of life and find solitude in his thoughts and inner conversations. Soon the crowds would be gone, and he would be promised the sands to himself. It was a matter of time…and he was in the business of waiting.
He walked out on the empty pier, the noise of the crowd distancing its detail into a communal mumble. He cast a weary glance out to the vast ocean, his heart pounding at the unfathomable greatness of it all. This was the part of the day he lived for: to be filled with the wonder of such simple beauty that whispered of mystery and complexity below the surface glance.
He leaned on the railing, a mere spectator of the busyness of the crowds from the safety of his observatory. Tiny hands carving out castles, obliging volunteers buried deep beneath shovel-fulls of sand, mothering eyes frantically scanning for a familiar face, shrieks of laughter immersing from splashed victims. It was quite amusing really – a circus of events and people unaware of their audience.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young boy set adrift on his tube. It bobbed in the waves, much to the amusement of its passenger. “Someone should really be watching that kid.” The man thought knowingly to himself, looking towards the beach for a mother or father that would surely have noticed by now the absence of their young Tom Sawyer…but none could be found.
“I guess some folks just can’t read the signs.” He muttered beneath his breath, keeping his eye on the lad. He had grown up with the awareness of danger that lurked within these waters. A seemingly peaceful surface held below it’s rolling waves a deadly undercurrent. Although countless had been warned of the undertow, few actually believed in its severity.
Silently he watched from the pier as the boy tottered on the waves, unaware of any danger in his drift from shore. As the man pondered how he might best send a warning to the lad, an unsuspecting wave curled over the tube, spilling its contents into the water.
A terrified yelp escaped from the boy’s lips, the reality of his situation branded into his eyes. His pleas for help reached the man’s ears – could no one else see or hear the boy’s distress? Surely there must be someone else more qualified to help. He knew he was in no shape to brave the waters, in fact, doing so would probably do more harm than good! “Looks like that boy could use some help.” He commented to a youth passing by. “I don’t see anything mister.” the stranger shrugged the hand off his shoulder, shaking his head as he walked away.
By now the flailing arms were growing weak. Could nobody see? Did nobody else care? The man grabbed a hold of the life preserver that hung on the pier. He had seen it used before to rescue others who had been caught up in these waters. With trembling hands he prepared to toss it out to the panicking lad when a thought crossed his mind…the boy seemed so far away. What if he missed? Or didn’t throw it far enough? What if the lad didn’t see it or ignored it all together? What if the people standing around him laughed at his meager attempts.
He looked at the face of the boy gasping at the surface, hands waving frantically for someone’s attention. A tiny voice within him told him to just throw the preserver, and yet it remained in his hand. He couldn’t! It was too late…it wasn’t his responsibility…he wasn’t prepared for this…
He watched as the boy slowly surrendered to the waves, first his battle worn face and finally his fingers slipped out of sight into a bottomless existence. Once again calm was restored to the surface.
The man hung the preserver back on its post, his ears still ringing with the whispers for help. “A tragedy really.” He thought to himself, heading back down the pier. Maybe next time he’d be ready. He pushed these thoughts from his mind as he looked back and saw the sky promising a brilliant display of colour, and the beach was clearing.

It seems ridiculous to think of such a casual attitude towards life...yet how many of us are the man – standing on the piers of this world, watching souls slip below the surface while we spectate from our comfortable Christian environments with the means of salvation within our grasp?
What will it take for us to wake up and open our eyes? The world is spiritually drowning every day in their lack of understanding. Where is our love and concern for them? Who’s face do you see slipping below the surface? How long has it been since you were the one in the water? I leave you with this challenge and encouragement…together we can make a difference for the kingdom of God, but we have to let go of ourselves to do it.

The Letter - A Love Story

Written as encouragement to both my brothers and sisters in Christ...it is worth the wait! Gauged from personal experience in a culture where purity has become a lost art, and where the design of the Creator has been discarded for a passing moment. For those who have lost their first opportunity, God is forgiving and merciful. If the Author and finisher of our faith has bestowed His forgiveness, who on earth could withhold it? And although some of us would desire to erase the blemishes from our past, may we never forget the journey that brought us through it. Much of who we are today can be accredited to the paths on which we've walked, and the faithfulness of a Father who desires all His children to be free. May our testimonies bear the grace of God in every stroke!
July 30, 1999

I lived once upon a time, in the land of hopes and dreams. There were castles, knights on white horses, fair maidens and happy endings…and there was always a charming prince! Dreams were attainable, stars were within reach, and all I could ever desire lay before me. Of all the treasures I could possess, the most cherished was a letter. It had been mine as far back as I could remember. Its pages displayed the gallery of my hidden emotions. Line after line tenderly clasped the secrets of my soul. Clean white sheets of paper cradled my very heart in delicate composition. This was where the very fiber of my being was scrawled in ink…hidden safely in a sealed envelope. It was mine for the keeping, but not mine to read. It’s story was written for eyes that were not my own – it’s contents penned for another.

And so I waited, guarding this prized possession with my life (for in essence it was my life). I would often sit beside the window of my thoughts and look at the world outside and wonder…who would the one be to read my letter? How would I know he was the one the letter was intended for? Would he find pleasure in its prose – reading the story again and again so as to absorb each and every word that was engraved in fine detail? Would his value of these pages exceed my own? Or would I even have the courage to let him read the tangled tale? These thoughts confounded me, but there was one thought that occupied more reflection than the former contemplation…would I also be a recipient of such a letter?

Seasons passed by, and my anticipation weighed heavily on the arrival of the moment. One moment in time, where truth would finally be written and the letter’s rightful owner would claim that which I had harbored for so long. The one moment when I would give up that which I guarded to receive that which I desired. At times my thoughts could be diverted by the prosaic affairs of life, but fragments of my heart always wondered aloud…when would that moment come?

Many years passed before me. Many hands had knocked upon the doors of my heart in petition for a glance at the exposition of my life. Many had fallen short of their alleged loyalty and devotion. Each of them had bestowed promises…and each had been forsaken by their own deception that they were the one I waited for. With poetic words they spoke, with beauty they attempted to entice, with strength they tried to seduce my heart – all in vain effort to unwrap the mystery contained in the envelope. They offered their letters to be read…if I would impart my own.

The constant endeavors of these swindlers wearied me. Were they sincerely interested in the contents, or merely curious in hearing yet another story? To assist my vigil I built higher walls and stronger gates to discourage the half-hearted - locking the letter safe within the confines of my heart. And still I wondered…would that moment come?

One day while I watched from my window, I saw a man come down the path. He stopped before the gates, pausing for a moment to look at the walls that rose in austerity before him. I surveyed the visitor carefully. He wasn’t like the others who had tread the same path. There was no presumption in his stature, no arrogance in his countenance…only the simplicity of truth spoken from his eyes. He hesitated before the door, glancing down at something he held in his hands - before placing it back in his pocket. It seemed like eternity had passed before he found the audacity to knock upon the doors that were slumbering from years of ignorance. I felt my heart leap within me…could this be the one I had been waiting for?

Moments of silence passed as I stood on the other side of the door that separated us. Could I muster the courage to open it? Would I be able to endure another set of footprints upon the threshhold of my heart? Was I ready to surrender my hidden treasure? I opened the door cautiously to find myself in the eyes of this stranger. For a frozen remnant of time there was silence in my thoughts. For the first time I could feel nothing but an overwhelming presence of peace. I knew that moment had finally come.

Stepping aside, I welcomed him within the walls of my home. He was not what I had envisioned, and yet he surpassed any expectation that I had derived in thought. There was so much to be said that I found I could say nothing at all - I could only look back into his eyes that received me as if we had known each other before this moment. He was the first to speak. “It has been a long journey,” he began, “and I have traveled far to find you.” His eyes passed over me as he replaced his own anticipations with the reality of this encounter. “Before I can go on, I have something you need to see.” From his breast pocket he pulled out an envelope.

Trembling hands embraced the gift. The long awaited prize was finally in my grasp. In wonder my fingers brushed over the name that was embossed on the front…it was my own. Then I noticed the envelope was slightly bent, and I saw its seal had been broken. All its contents had been read, its passages pilfered. Hot tears stung my eyes…there must be some kind of mistake! This couldn’t be my letter…and yet it bore my name in bold print. I slid the pages from their breached casing and held in my hands page upon page of his story. There were smudged fingerprints from the past; stains inflicted by cruel exposure; ink blots where the story had been rewritten. This could not be my letter!

So many questions flooded my mind. How many eyes had seen this text before mine? What stories had been read in return? Had he not seen the worth of the treasure bestowed upon him for safekeeping? Could I trust him with my own letter?

He watched the anguish cloud my face, but his sorrow could find no words in which to console me. I began to read the sordid tale, trying to swallow the anticipation of disappointment…and yet, each line met me with a beauty I could not comprehend. Despite the external blemishes that marred its intended perfection, the Author had reconstructed the script into a beautiful masterpiece.

Paragraph upon paragraph reminded me of a love and forgiveness greater than my own. Tears of joy, sadness and compassion fell down my cheeks as I placed this letter upon the heart that had since grown to cherish its tattered pages. There was no need for explanation, no cause for reproof. I had been given a great treasure that the foregoing beholders had cast away in haste and neglected to find. The same Author, who had penned the pages of my letter, had placed his seal of authorship upon this story.

Pulling my own letter from its cache, I held it out to its sole beneficiary. There was much to be read, yet much more to be written.

The End