Little Sea Shells in a Father's Hand

When Jonathan and I accompanied Fain's family and a friend they had along

to an island beach one late afternoon in Florida, 

our children were on Jonathan's mind.

While most of the others waded clear out into the deep breakers, 

beyond which we saw what we were quite sure was a dolphin spouting water farther beyond, 

he knelt along the shore

looking for pretty sea shells to take home to Danny and Hannah.

It's always amazing to me to think how we are also on our Father's mind. 

There are millions of shells along the beach,

but He knows and cares about each one of us.

Like someone looking for sea shells for souvenirs,

the Heavenly Father sorts through the broken pieces of our life--

finding beauty where ashes have been.

Some of us, it seems, have more broken shells than others. 

It's kind of hard to find anything quite in one piece, it seems.

And when you do, it seems quite full of sand.

Yet His fingers continue working, sorting gently, pushing one broken piece after another aside,

and finding some gem here and there,

little butterfly shells of every color imaginable.

And it's true that most of our sand castles get washed away only too quickly,

yet even every grain of sand is known by our Father.

He is very  much aware 

of our castles in the air--

and of all the lonely sand pipers scouring the beach for something to eat.

And He knows when the waves have overwhelmed us

and we've ended up drenched and shivering--even in the Florida sun.

He loves to gather pieces together,

and build something out of them.

Broken sea shells and trenches in the sand--

turn into writing material for someone who sits barefoot in the sand, empty shoes nearby,

with a nephew's straw hat on, 

and a journal in her lap.

Even broken shells are useful for something--like for a walkway to a picnic area.

Broken shells are used to being walked on anyway--

aren't they?

Big boots stomping all over. 

It's part and parcel of being broken shells.

And so it's comforting to remember that there is a Father

who loves to collect sea shells--broken or not--

to turn them into souvenirs, or something useful that we would never have imagined.

A Father Who knows how to make something beautiful out of the most ordinary. 

Butterfly shells--on a Florida sea shore.