One summer Scott
and I flew to San Diego to visit our cousin Zelda.
While there, we spent some time at the
Pacific Ocean’s shore.
Just standing at a very small edge of this huge body of water was
awe-inspiring.
Looking outward from my
vantage point on the sand, I could not imagine the immensity of this vast body
of water, stretching for thousands of miles in every direction.
I spent some time wandering along the shore,
always looking out to the water.
The
waves never ceased.
Constantly they rushed
the beach, always the same, yet always different.
They followed one another, curling and
rolling, white spray flying high.
White
gulls skimmed the water’s surface, diving into the tops of the waves to capture
fish for breakfast.
Each wave must have contained
thousands of gallons of moving, roiling, rushing water.
Their strength amazed me.
Even when I stood ankle deep at the very edge
of this ocean, the waves, running to the shore and then back home, pulled at
me, nearly knocking me off my feet.
“Come out into the deep,” they seemed to say. The locals said, “Always
face the waves.”
I learned to keep my
eyes on the waves and never underestimate their power.
I tried to discern
a pattern in the way the waves ran at the beach, but the variety was
endless.
They came in intervals—for a
time many smaller waves hit the beach, then bigger waves—wave after wave—pounded
the shore, rolling, breaking, rushing to the sands, and then retreating.
The sound of the waves was astounding. Right
at my feet was always the soft, sibilant sound of waves running at the beach,
scrubbing the sand, then running back home, pulled by the ocean as a small
child runs back to her mother and father.
But farther out, where the waves curled on themselves and broke, the
waters boomed and roared, boomed and roared.
Even from a half mile away their crashing noise echoed.
I closed my eyes and soaked in the sounds of
this majestic ocean.
The early morning
air was cool, and I basked in the amazing experience, wishing I could stay
longer.
I stood, I looked, I listened,
trying to absorb it all.
It occurred to me
that the incredible beauty, immensity, and power of the ocean are, on a small
scale, a reflection of our miraculous God.
When I stood on the beach and gazed at the ocean, it seemed so enormous,
yet I viewed only an infinitesimal portion of this massive body of water. So it
is with God.
We are privileged at times
to catch glimpses of God’s immensity, but we see only a small portion.
We glimpse His power, yet we experience just
a tiny glimpse of His majesty.
In Isaiah
45:15, we read, “Truly you are a God who hides himself, O God and Savior of Israel.”
Paul reminds us how little we know of our
awesome God in I Corinthians 13:12.
“Now
we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully,
even as I am fully known.”
God, thank you for the tangible reminders of Your greatness.
Psalms 93:3-4 “The
seas have lifted up, O LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice; the seas have
lifted up their pounding waves. Mightier
than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea—the
LORD on high is mighty.”