Sunrise at the Beach

It was the last day of the 16th birthday bash for my daughter and her two friends. This was the second year of their tradition to go away together to celebrate. Last year, they went to a cabin house in the woods, but this year’s setting was the Jersey shore. A perfect ending to a perfect weekend would be to see the sun rise on the beach.

The girls plotted their morning wake-up plan using their cellphones as alarms. My own body clock turned out to be more effective. I woke up at 6 and after throwing on my sweats and an extra sweatshirt on top of my pajamas, I walked into the girls’ bedroom where their three bodies morphed as if they suddenly fell asleep playing Twister. I shook them awake, offering them the option to stay asleep. Not happening. They got up, brushed their teeth, found their sweats, hats, scarves and gloves while shuffling to the living room for their shoes. Within minutes, they were ready. It was only two blocks away, but we loaded up in the car and drove to the beach entrance, saving as much time as possible so we could beat the sun’s appearance over the horizon. The girls bounced out of the car and hurried up the wooden ramp to the beach entrance.

At the end of the ramp, we stood silently, just staring. The ocean danced ferociously under the expanse of a glorious sky painted with bold varieties of oranges, pinks, blues and greens. Breathtaking. The wind threatened to take our hats and scarves but we held on tighter and after a few minutes decided to forge ahead to the water’s edge. I snapped photo after photo hoping to capture the sunrise at the precise postcard-perfect moment when it peeked through. I found myself thinking about life and friendship and God and love while watching the trio of young ladies move ahead. Within moments, the colorful sky brightened, as if a God-sized light switch was flipped and suddenly we saw it. The sun blazed its appearance at the edge of the horizon.

The girls wrapped their arms together and, together, received.

I began a silent prayer:

God, you’re showing off for these girls, aren’t you? Thank you, God. Thank you, too, for the chance to spend time with them this weekend. This sunrise is the perfect show of what you have for them. Bless them, God. Be with them always. And thank you for loving them.



Then I cried.

God was showing off for me, too.

It's "Go" Time!

The following blog post from three years ago came across my way and was a much-needed message in my life right now. I am struggling with trusting God again, and while I know there's a deep-seated faith within me, it's a little hard to find. Why? Well, there are new things going on around here which require trusting God. My children are getting older and we're looking at colleges, my husband's health seems stable and I need to move forward in this new normal, my own habits of stress eating and "doing" instead of healthy eating and "being" are creeping back. But I know in my head, and somewhere in my heart, that God is in charge. I can jump again into His presence, and while it feels like free falling, it can be a place of peace. I can still remember those five seconds of falling...they were freeing. Let me know: is this message just for me or also for some others out there? I'd love to hear about it.
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Back in the early eighties, there was a parachuting fad, and I dove in. Or shall I say: I dove out…of the plane. The end of the story? I landed on the ground with more of a thud than anticipated, but safely nonetheless. The jump itself was triggered with the single command: “Go!”

The one-day-crash-training-course had a single purpose: to help us know what to do when all other systems failed. We each were provided two parachutes. One of the parachutes was strapped to our backs, and was subsequently attached to the plane with a static line. The line released the chute as we left the plane. The most critical piece of equipment was the second parachute, referred to as our “reserve” chutes. These were strapped to the front of our abdomen. This chute was to be deployed if the first chute failed. We were repeatedly taught “Pull, then throw!” “Pull, then throw!” “Pull, then throw!” We were taught to pull that reserve chute out of the pack if necessary, and then throw it away from ourselves as hard as we could so we would not get caught up in the ropes as it opened.

We were also taught the techniques for landing. If we looked straight ahead and not down at the ground as we were landing, we were safer and less prone to broken bones from putting hands and legs out to stop the fall. Again, this was a method taught through repetition: “Jump, then roll!” “Jump, then roll!” “Jump, then roll!” We continued this mantra as we jumped off the five-foot platforms to practice our moves.

The plane ride was next. Packed in like sardines, straddling the bench, we were to exit the plane one at a time. The first person went. All I saw was the blur of her helmet, so I figured she went down, hoping the parachute opened to accompany her. I still remember my racing heart; beads of sweat on my forehead; a lack of ability to swallow. The open door of the airplane seemed to grow larger with each moment. Gulp. My turn. I stood up. “Ready?” the instructor said. A brief nod. With a slap of his palm against my left shoulder, it was “Go” time. I jumped out and dove into nothingness.

Free falling was incredible. Those five thrilling seconds of weightlessness were worth the work. A strong tug, then I was pulled upward, and thankfully I knew my chute was up. I didn’t need to use the reserve chute. I don’t know if I would’ve remembered “Pull, then throw” at that point either. I continued to float down to the ground. It was an unusual feeling, but also peaceful.

I was thinking about that moment of “Go” time recently. The times before and after the actual jump were fantastic, but “Go” time was that pivot-point where I could have said “No!” Why was it so frightening to jump after all that training? Because I still felt unsure of what would happen. Because, at “Go” time, I felt out of control—the most. This is my new definition of faith—saying “Go” when everything in me wants to say “No!.” Trusting God requires that I trust Him with everything, the training time, the equipment, and even the “Go” time.

The only reason I can say “yes” at “Go” time in my faith is because of what I know about God. I know He loves me and always gives me a safe place to land. No adventure can beat that type of fall. Falling into faith is an exciting, but peaceful, adventure.

Finches

It had been an extra-tough year. My husband’s cancer diagnosis last spring blasted our family into a whirlwind of doctor’s appointments, medical questions, fear, more medical questions, financial questions, more fear, more doctor’s appointments, and oh yes, more questions. Today, we experience our daily lives at an awkward pace; switching out the old pace and perspective on life for this new normal. Joe’s health continues to stabilize, but my writing needed some resuscitation. I needed to find myself again and ask some basic questions: who am I, what do I think about, what I need. I needed to thrive, not just survive; and in the middle of it all I still needed God.

Fortunately, God never left. He is still here. I just forgot. I also forgot some of my habits which seem insignificant but are the source of refueling for my soul. Habits like prayer and journaling, not just several days a week, but every day. My spirit longed for the simple things again: for time with myself, time with friends, time for baking. Last week, I remembered another joy I’ve missed: replenishing my finch feeder.

The shepherd’s hook out back had been empty for months, and last week I finally put up a finch feeder again. The next day, my eyes clouded with tears when I saw that the finches returned. They simply wanted their share; their portion; one tiny piece of nyjer seed at a time, and that's when I remembered. It's not the big doses of God that matter; it's the regular little portions that I will always crave. And receive, if only I ask.

The finches are back and so am I.