Today
I remember the first time I ever saw the ocean. I was probably around fourteen or so. My family had taken a vacation to visit my aunt and cousins near the Oregon coast. They took us to the cold, gray beach. And I was struck dumb with awe at how tiny I suddenly felt, looking out across the cobalt blue water, the mist that beckoned in whispers, unable to see the other side no matter how hard I squinted. My heart raced with the exhilaration of epiphanies. After some time searching for my breath, I finally found myself a stick and wrote in the sand. For the next couple of days, the words "How Great Thou Art" were etched in large letters for anyone at the beach to see. There are few times in my life that I can so clearly remembering knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is, indeed, a God, and I that I knew Him.
I've loved the ocean ever since.
Nevertheless, as tends to happen, the thrill of my first time seeing the ocean faded as I grew older, and it became less of a novelty, less of a crush to gush over and more of a dear old friend whose companionship I value greatly. I feel as though I don't appreciate the ocean as much now as I did then. The strange feeling of knowing how tiny and how great you are all at once, and of knowing that the other side is farther away than I could imagine--it no longer strikes me quite as deeply as it did before. Now, I hardly think about it at all, or I simply sigh over my desire to be able to see the other side without having to cross it, my desire to sail and adventure away without all the dangers inherent in it.
There were a few passions today that I reignited within myself, feelings that I remembered, sitting by the crashing pale green waves with only a sketchbook full of story notes and loose designs on my lap. Passions and feelings too fragile these days to explain. But among them was my memory, and every memory that came before and after it, and the humbling knowledge that the other side will never come to me on its own. It is a mystery, yes. But not unobtainable. I said to myself again, "How great thou art," and knew, again, that it was true.
I almost felt like I could have walked across the waves.
I've loved the ocean ever since.
Nevertheless, as tends to happen, the thrill of my first time seeing the ocean faded as I grew older, and it became less of a novelty, less of a crush to gush over and more of a dear old friend whose companionship I value greatly. I feel as though I don't appreciate the ocean as much now as I did then. The strange feeling of knowing how tiny and how great you are all at once, and of knowing that the other side is farther away than I could imagine--it no longer strikes me quite as deeply as it did before. Now, I hardly think about it at all, or I simply sigh over my desire to be able to see the other side without having to cross it, my desire to sail and adventure away without all the dangers inherent in it.
There were a few passions today that I reignited within myself, feelings that I remembered, sitting by the crashing pale green waves with only a sketchbook full of story notes and loose designs on my lap. Passions and feelings too fragile these days to explain. But among them was my memory, and every memory that came before and after it, and the humbling knowledge that the other side will never come to me on its own. It is a mystery, yes. But not unobtainable. I said to myself again, "How great thou art," and knew, again, that it was true.
I almost felt like I could have walked across the waves.