Nature preaches sermons from pulpits of sky and ocean and terra firma every day. I stop too infrequently to hear the message — I mean, to really hear it, you know?
Maybe I was drawn today by the choir of a thousand gulls or the thunderous voice of the preacher: the sea. He won’t stop preaching. And this is both a whisper and a shout.
All day and night, his voice sprays with ceaseless praise in tidal swells.
At church, I usually sit left side, third row from the back. But this morning, I march right down the sandy aisle, barefoot, to find a place along a gray line of foam closest to the pulpit. I want a front-row seat to majesty.
I taste salt, feel words twist like seaweed around my immovable feet.
Clouds lope across the heavenly dome, like breezy banners decorating a sanctuary. And the sun is one giant candle, an endless flame rising above the vista.
I can’t see any end to it. Can’t fathom the renewable source that keeps pushing water this way, now toward me — one human standing on the rim of creation.
It’s wholly gratuitous.
I sink deeper into sand, deeper into grace.
I’m smitten with creation. Even more? I am smitten with the Creator, in whom and for whom all things were created.
Last photo: Y for Yahweh.