Two weeks ago we drove to the beach. One of those spur-of-the-moment, Saturday surprises that put us in the car all day with six of our kids. Hours over to the coast, and hours back, with a lovely break in between for lunch.
We checked the weather report that morning. “Sunny and clear at Bodega Bay” said the Internet, but when we arrived early that afternoon, a fierce wind blasted sand in our faces. The sun was gone. The waves dark and cold. Scott and the baby lasted ten minutes on the stormy shore. The older kids and I made it a half hour. Aside from a deranged poodle digging to China with her owner wrapped in a blanket, looking like a mummy on the beach beside the crazy dog, we were the only ones on the sand.
At first I was disappointed by the storm.
So I prayed, “You created this weather, God. This is the day you have made, I will rejoice and be glad.”
Easy to say, harder to pray, and even harder to live out. Yet, I bent my head against the wind, wrapped my sweater tightly around me, and walked to the water’s edge with the kids, expecting God to meet us there.
Foam sprayed high and sideways in the fierce wind. Though the ocean rolled wild as far as the eye could see, low tide left miles of beach exposed.
Look down, the Lord seemed to whisper.
There at my feet lay a sand dollar.
I picked it up, feeling my heart lifting, too.
“Don’t despise these storms. I have treasures of darkness, riches hidden in secret places for you” Isaiah 45:3.
Sunny days at the beach rarely yield sand dollars for me. But during this storm, I found three, beautiful, completely whole, white ones in fifteen minutes. And was reminded of a valuable lesson: God teaches me so much when life is stormy.
I pray more. Listen more. And learn more.
Blue skies don’t bring this out in me, but storms do.
And right now I’m in a storm.
Last night, I knelt beside our six-year-old, JoJo’s, bed. Begging God to heal my boy. He’s been pretty sick. Pneumonia. Antibiotics haven’t helped.
It’s frightening when your child can’t breathe. When he’s choking and coughing and his frantic eyes are fixed on you. And you’re on your knees. And your prayers hit heaven and bounce back in your face.
That’s how it seemed last night. Banging on heaven’s door. In the pouring rain. Sobbing for shelter. Frightened and helpless in a storm with someone I desperately love.
Love beyond measure.
Love beyond bounds.
Love beyond heaven’s shut door.
In a moment of fear, I stop myself cold. Pray the prayer of surrender. “If You take him, I will still love you, Jesus.”
Press my tear-streaked cheeks into the bed sheets. And cry and pray and finally fresh strength fills me to speak truth over my child’s sickbed.
“Jesus, I trust you.
My son is yours.
I am yours.
Have your way with us.”
And finally the night stills.
My son sleeps.
For a few hours we both blessedly sleep.
Until we do it all over again: The coughing. The praying. The crying. The surrender.
Then back to the doctor this morning for chest X-rays and new medicine.
And in the storm, I search for sand dollars. Because I know they’re here. These treasures the Lord helps me find: gifts of trust.
Of faith.
Of hope.
Of healing.
Perfectly whole encouragement on this storm-swept beach of sickness. And I gather the gifts now. While I can. While they’re in reach. Because in the sunshine when the beach is warm and safe and dry and crowded, I find only pieces of these treasures of darkness hidden in secret places.