Waves and water.

I spent some time on the high seas today with Moby Dick, and I couldn’t help but want to be washed, to sit by the waves and watch them flood over my feet, the sand, the shore.

If His grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking.

I want to sit by His ocean because the water always returns to the shore. The tide goes out but the waves still come. The sand might be dry right now, but just wait until 5:00 and wade deeper while you wait.

I want to be aware of how the water laps gently over my feet when I stand at the edge of His ocean, but when I get my surfboard, it’s all around me. When I dive in headfirst or feet first or whatever first, I’m drenched. It gets quiet, and all I’m aware of is how I’m wet and surrounded.

There’s an amazing quiet when you’re underwater. You can’t smell, can’t usually see much, can’t hear, and shouldn’t risk trying to taste anything. You just feel, feel the water all around.

You surface to breathe again, and the air feels different. It tastes salty, and you see the world differently. The water changes your perspective. I want to know that perspective, to swim deep and come up different every day. To only get out long enough to get dry, then plunge in deep again.

I want his waves to come higher and higher on those days that I’m reluctant to get in. I want them to break down the sandcastles I’ve built, the ones that stand between me and the water. I want it to wash the sand off of my feet and my legs, to know that feeling of pure cleanness that I lose immediately after stepping back into dry sand.

I want to swim every day, to drip on the people I meet, and pull them in to swim with me.

His grace, His love, His mercy is an ocean. And I am sinking without drowning, without a struggle. I sink and live.

Oh, the paradoxes of the Gospel.

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