The fresh salt of the sea captured by the breeze made it’s wonderful way to my nose and to the edge of my lips. The crunch of the tiny shells under my feet brought glee – yes glee – to my ears and subsequently to my heart. The repetitive pounding of the surf upon the rocky ridges that guard the simple, shell-laden seashore filled me with excitement and hope. The air was almost cold as I gathered my hoodie sweater around me and made my way down the steep bank into the spray and salt. The early morning on the beach guaranteed my solitude and my eyes gazed out over the busy water to a small outline of a toylike ship just on the horizon. Gray and fuzzy, it sat motionless. The sense of goodness and sweetness could almost be tasted like the salt on my lips. I could feel it. I can feel it now. I was thankful. Tears well up with the memory. Ah, the joy of that sense, that feeling, that day. Longing.
Few places bring me joy like the beach of the cold ocean on an early morning. Composed of tiny, tiny seashells, guarded by rows of rocks running into the surf and surrounded by dirt cliffs, this place is a picture of beauty and a taste of sweet goodness. The water is wonderfully frigid. Just a touch brings a gasp. The spray on your face makes you shiver inside and pull your sweater closer. It’s chilled goodness. The air is of brine. Strong. You can taste it. The sound is of repetitive power. Waves crashing in rhythm with thunder on the rocks that guard the little shell laden beach. One’s senses are almost assaulted. I stop and tilt my head – listening intently for what it is I think I am hearing. Above the wind. Above the surf. The sound of Heaven.
I have heard it. I am longing for God.