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 fears and my sadness. I spent time crying as I think about facing my scariest Goliath yet--losing the person who understands me better than anyone else ever will. Losing my hero. Losing my Papaw. I cried over the memories that flooded my mind every moment. I cried in the ocean as I looked up to the balcony. I cried over a voicemail I have saved from my birthday four years ago..."You'll always be Papaw's girl. Always." I cried over microwave pancakes! I am crying now. I'm terrified and terribly sad, but I have found peace because my God is bigger. Papaw's God is bigger.
When Matt and I took our first trip together, to Pensacola with a few of our best friends, I told him to watch for a change in me as we crossed the state line into Florida. He summed it up by pointing out I was still me, just a happier, more relaxed version. If Matt could bottle Florida, I'm fairly certain he would inject it into my Coke Zero on a daily basis. On this particular trip, while teasing me for sleeping the full ten hours here, he surmised it was the first time in a good two months that stress wasn't eating me alive. My mornings here are different. I wake up refreshed from nightmare-free sleep (a feat I can't ever accomplish at home). I feel rested, more carefree, unencumbered. This place restores my soul.
Last night, after we played games, Ben suggested a 2:00-in-the-morning beach excursion. Under the light of a bright, almost-full moon, we kicked off our flip flops and laughed as Ben and Matt pilfered the forgotten sand tools of some unknowing toddler and set off with flashlights to dig for hermit crabs. The realization hit me again as I stared up at that huge moon and laughed with my family: He is bigger. The one who spoke all this into existence is holding me in His hand. He cares enough about me to see me through this and to give me time. He is covering me, sheltering me, healing me, teaching me. He is giving me perspective, teaching me to dance in the rain...teaching me not to let the sadness and the fear steal precious memories.
I used to believe when tragedy struck it should define my entire life. I had a need to let everyone know that terrible things had happened. I believed I shouldn't permit myself to be happy because it would be a disservice to the sadness of what was occurring. Now I understand things to be quite the opposite. I carry the sadness around, as Matt perfectly put it, like a dull ache. We didn't forget John on Sunday as we celebrated Matt's first birthday without him here. We felt that hole like a dull ache, and we shed a few tears, but we still celebrated Matt. My family now feels the fear of Papaw's cancer. The sadness sits like a heavy weight pressing on my chest at all times. It never, ever, ever leaves me. But I am thankful I didn't miss out on the New York Strip from McGuire's, or walking into the ocean holding my daddy's hand, or the baby crab the boys found underground...it actually winked at me! I have witnesses! This is the first time my family has had a break, one fortifying week, and I am grateful we are able to be here for a short time, creating precious memories. We have listened to our Father. We have found a pocket of peace.
We can feel the feathers.
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
Psalm 91
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