Originally published Wednesday, 11 February 2015.
They stoop low at the ocean's edge inspecting a Lightning Whelk Snail. The sun has just begun to peak out from beneath the clouds and warm the final January day in Florida.
I snap their picture and think, this is what learning looks like from here.
Bent low, searching, seeking the knowledge and adventure that await in a moment of exploration. God's sea creatures each tell a story, and the seemingly peaceful shore mocks the real truth that life in the sea is fierce and tumultuous even as the soothing, rhythmic sounds of the ocean lull me into a peaceful state.
There is always this tension just beneath the surface of life.
There is no escaping the forces of good and evil when we live on this side of eternity.
There is a constant need to bend low and search out the still, small voice of God that can also boom like approaching thunder.
At the supposed age of Christ during his final year in earthly ministry, I feel what most people feel as they steadily grow older: wisdom comes with age and it is harder not to be blinded by the cares of this world nor the skepticism reality brings with each passing year. I am learning that I can no more hold on to the present than it becomes the past. I must enjoy each moment for what it is, for it only comes once and then a memory.
Is it any wonder that God asks us to approach Him with the faith of a child? The child that is oblivious to the cares and demands of life. The child that sees not distractions, but opportunities to explore and learn. The child that sees now even as she anticipates the future. The older they grow the faster they desire to grow up and shed the contentment of their age at present.
Life, like the tide, is in a constant state of give and take, come and go. Even this week, we celebrate the seventh birthday of our daughter and only three weeks ago the fifth of our son; we join with the throngs who utter, "Where did the time go?". But hidden with the jewels of the sea, there are lessons to be learned, discoveries to be made that utter even of the passing of time. Anne Morrow Lindbergh captures a few of these lessons in her book, Gift from the Sea:
One learns to accept the fact that no permanent return is possible to an old form of relationship; and, more deeply still, that there is no holding of a relationship to a single form. This is not tragedy but part of the ever-recurrent miracle of life and growth. All living relationships are in process of change, of expansion, and must perpetually be building themselves new forms.
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
The jewels of the sea grow larger with age--their age brings constant rebuilding of their present forms. So do we, don't you agree? We shouldn't look the same at fifty as we did at five, nor should we come to the same hobbies void of new knowledge and understanding.
I have always loved the shore. The splash of waves and the picking up of shells. However, now I enjoy it with specificity. That is, I see it more like God sees it. Crying forth its message of creation, fall, redemption, life, death, catastrophe, and rebuilding. I can name the shells I once only admired. Isn't that grand, that learning from here continues, but looks different than nearly three decades ago?
I can only imagine the discoveries I will make and the view-point I will take in one, two, or perhaps three decades time. Then, maybe I will stoop with my grandchildren and ponder, So this is what learning looks like from here.