Finding God in a Seashell

Finding God in a Seashell

Walking on the beach with the love of my life lost in the splendor of our surround.  We spend an hour in the unforgiving sun, seeking out the perfect shells that will soon end up forgotten in some box hidden deep within the recesses of her closet along with the rest of the past crustacean collections that have accumulated over the years of vacationing.  In the process, I marvel at the inspired patterns, shapes, and bizarre yet enchanting mixing of hues possessed in each curve, elevation, and edge.    The majestic etchings; artwork of the ocean with its never ending crafting with age, honed by both the gentle and passionate embrace of each current and wave.  Scarred and stained by the amorous thrusting of every riptide, as the sea intimately grinds unique markings deep into their essence, enveloped and later revealed in the sands of the ocean floor.  Sculpting an existence that is as original as a snowflake or raindrop.   We watched as the infant clams washed ashore, frantically burrowing into the soft silky silt to avoid the ravenous appetites of the assaulting gulls who strike with the speed and precision of a cheetah stalking its prey in the blistering heat of the Savannah.    Pelicans glide down as if they are weightless, opening and filling their gaping beaks with sea water only to later sift through desperate to find the next tasty morsel like a seasoned Gold Panner at the height of the California rush.   The sun glistens off the water, its rays dance across the surface like a rush of pixies tickling the twilight.  Echoes of the crashing surf echoes through the air as it carries on the fragile breeze, eclipsing the interruption of the glee's of children as the frolic in the bosom of the tide.  Heat kisses the skin, softly at first, then biting with the ferocity of a virgin lover, reckless and obsessed with desire.  The day is a poem, the sky a symphony, the horizon lost between water and air.  And as I witness this spectacular show I am offended that anyone would dare insult nature's majesty, but assuming any of this was birthed by some freak cosmic accident, a child of unconscious, callous chaos.   This is artistry in its absolute form and only one example of the performances in an eternal divine theater.  It takes the careful, loving hand of a creator, to weave this tapestry of beauty on a loom of infinite possibility.   This is not accident, it is miraculous purpose, defined by its own existence, born of its own truth.  Nature is the daughter of grace, sister of mercy, mother of uninhibited fury,  life's one true lover.  To call her formation a mistake is to call da Vinci's awe-inspiring feats mere doodles and toys of an absent-minded dreamer.   Evolution and adaptation are merely the painters signature, the final brushstroke, after the commission is completed by a limitless master.   It is only when we understand that, that we can truly see God in the simpleness of a broken shell.