We live out life on a shore, a sandy windblown beach washed
by the salty waters of life, the tears of the Savior weeping over us.
Castles we build, some filigreed and grand, some solid and
plain, structures scraped and molded from the ground beneath our feet, the dust
that forms us and will reclaim us. Sand castles are defiant shouts against the
deafening roar of the inevitably victorious surf.
“This will last forever.”
Forever, like a diamond, like a marriage, like a bff
promise. There is no forever in this world. One man sows and another gathers
his fruit; there is no certainty here. Seasons there are: seedtime and harvest, plenty and want, building
and washing away. Some castles
last longer than others, but nothing lasts forever.
“I will not be defeated.”
Nor will our team, nor our party, nor our nation. Right is
on our side. Little matter. The walls, well-built and high above the surf line,
battlements against the battle of earth and sea and sky, are made of nothing.
Millions of tiny grains of nothing, leftover someone elses, decayed somethings,
lifeless stuff piled into fortresses cannot stop death and destruction.
“This time will be different.”
Our species lives in hope. Maybe that defines us. Surely it
has something to do with our survival, success after failure after failure
after failure. The poor will always be with us. The hungry will never be
filled. The emperor is wearing no clothes. Yet we build again, feed again, hope
again. We conceive one more solution, execute one more plan, build one more
castle, and the waves and the wind and the sand devour it.
“Here I stand.”
The very ground beneath our feet is unstable, water
separating the grains as heels, then toes, then ankles sink into the sucking
earth. Without moving we lose ground quite literally as it washes away from our
firmly planted feet. This is no place to make a stand.
There is no other place to stand; what must we do to be
safe? Should we run? Fast and free, dancing in and out of the surf, will we run
heedless of the cutting sand, the stinging salt, rejoicing in the music of the
elements? There is no safety there. One misstep and tendons twist, ligaments
stretch, bones snap. Should we retreat? Shall we move away from the line, away
from the ever-evident eroding, away to a calm and quiet retreat? We cannot live
without the water, nor can we breathe without the wind, and the illusion of
solid ground is one we must choose to believe even far from this place. Should
we rest? Shall we lie down and wait to die, wait for the windblown sand to cut
us into tiny pieces to be washed away, wait until we become parts of the
shifting substance of the world we mistrust? Should we not stand instead? Shall
we stand facing the sea, building what we can, accepting the failures,
rejoicing in the moments spent here, alive? At the end of the day, will we look
back and wish we’d never built, or will we celebrate the memories of work and
play, perhaps cherishing a bit of shell, a piece of special beauty saved from
the barrage of the elements?
We do stand, yes, and shout into the wind, and our words
rush back down our throats as the waves faint at our feet. Messengers they,
expiring with the words they must bring to save us, completing their marathon
journey with the reminder: “Joy, we win!”
John 16:33 “In the world ye shall
have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
Rejoice!