Beauty in the Ashes

  We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. Hebrews 6:19 I am putting my fingers on the keys and forcing myself to type.  I have waited to write these words, hoping that a little distance will make them easier to look at in black and white, but that does not seem to be the case.  So I will weep and write and get these thoughts from my head to the screen...because I never want to forget. We had already sent Dad on the first flight home two days before, on the 4th of July.  I had taken to putting on snorkel gear and talking to Papaw underwater, believing if ever two people had a fighting chance at telepathy, it was the pair of us.  On the 5th, I forced myself to tell him it was okay to let go.  I thought maybe he needed to feel somehow that it was all right with me.  Did you know you can cry underwater?  It is possible.  Mom and I did a lot of crying in the Gulf of Mexico.  I also remember sitting on the balcony...

Why does a girl with O.C.D., pale skin, a hearty disdain for getting water up her nose, and issues with all things slimy love, love, love the beach?  This question has occurred to me, said girl, many times as I trudged out to the Gulf of Mexico through perfect, sugary sand.  I don't seem to care about the germs or the fact that I always eat a wave for breakfast at least once a day or that icky things are all around me or that a jellyfish might sting me if I forget to shuffle.  My answer is always the same--The beach is just bigger than all of that.  I look to the horizon as far out as I can see, and the brand new waves breaking every second, and the perfect sun in the sky, and I remember God is bigger.  Perhaps it is the sinking-in of this knowledge that completely transforms me each time I set foot on that shore. It wouldn't be me playing the lead in this story if I'd left my worries in Sweet Home Indiana.  I did not.  I brought my fear...