Anatomy of a seashell
(This is a companion piece to my last entry, “I see you.”)
Recently, I visited a public library and picked up books on seashells, in particular, shells found where I live. It's an odd thing to realize these were once homes for creatures. In the back of your head, you know that, but when you're on the beach and looking at shells, you're looking for a pretty one or one that isn't damaged. You’re not thinking about what used to be. All you care about is what you’re holding. Is it useful? Is it pretty? Some have holes bored through from some other, wickeder creature. Do we realize these shells are armor, that what transpires under the waves is battle, life and death, that these discarded shells are testament to wars won or lost, some poor creatures having been pulled from their shells or digested right in them? Maybe it's just calcium carbonate to the average beachgoer, if they even consider the building blocks of what they’re holding, but now I look at them differently. The cost of each beautiful shell was a life.
It occurs to me this blog — weathered, chipped, broken — is like a seashell. Some visit for a short time, finger it like a shell at the beach, then toss it back, not realizing the great cost with which it was written. Not just hours of my life. But my very life force displayed on these pages, flowing away from me like blood dripping into water. My life was misspent and torn from me in the waves, beyond the eyes of those looking for a pretty trinket to say they’ve been to the ocean. I lost my life out there, was spat out on the sand by a violent storm, only to be tossed back, forgotten. If you’re reading here, why? What drew you? You clearly saw more than trinkets in the sand. You saw the life-and-death battle. You understood. So, thank you.
Maybe you wonder where I’ve been. I won’t assume it’s anything but vague curiosity. Now, you’re knee-deep in a somewhat poetic post, when things take a turn.
It was early December of last year when I got the worst health news of my life. I sat in my car afterward, thinking I would cry, but somehow rallied, told God I was thankful for the life I was given, and vowed to make even more changes to heal my body. I didn’t crumble. I didn’t give in. I broke a new barrier. Unafraid of death, yet thankful for each day, feeling like each new day is a little present. How many do I have left? Only God knows.
Also in December, I bought my own place — a place of peace and healing. It’s quiet, opening on the backside to a lanai overlooking a pond with fountain and ducks of various pedigrees. Little lizards scoot under the screen door and visit as I enjoy my coffee or say prayers or read my Bible. Beyond the pond lies a canal with a small alligator whose name, I’m told, is Elvis.
That same month I met someone who would later become my girlfriend. She said, “the biggest thing about me is my mouth,” meaning she’s tiny — 5’4”, 95 lbs., dark hair, and green eyes — yet feisty. She’s from south Georgia and sounds like it. She talks a lot. The kids call it “yap,” which I don’t mind at all. Her stories are funny. She doesn’t take herself seriously. She’s like a tiny dynamo. I adore her. In January, we were intimate, ending my long sexual drought, which was nearly 9 years, after separation and divorce in 2017. Though she is my age (11 days younger), we discussed later what might happen if she got pregnant, as she hasn’t reached menopause. Considering it’s only about a 5% chance, I think we are okay. But I would welcome a baby into my life. We both agree a girl would be amazing, but every child is a gift from God. But, no, she won't get pregnant.
Yes, she’s feisty, yet sweet. She was instantly recognizable to my soul: intelligent (was working on her PhD), feels deeply (she’s an empath), is breathtakingly honest, is a fighter, has a high sex drive, loves children and the Lord, and is endlessly giving, only wanting the best for those around her. She is what a Christian woman looks like in action, not just in theory. I would marry her for her southern lexicon and love of cooking with butter, but only God knows if the relationship will go further. All I know is she’s adorable, so much fun, and I want to keep doing whatever it is we are doing. If writing this blog taught me anything, it’s that I wasn’t doing it wrong: I’m emotionally available and love big. I like giving flowers and planting kisses on an adorable forehead with big eyes dreamily looking up at me. I like going to bed with a warm spot in my chest instead of a hole. God only knows how I survived all those years. Yes, God knows. Because it was only by His grace.
This blog, which amounts to about as much as shells on a beach, pulverized over time by relentless waves, is foundational to whatever comes after. Like shells turning to sand over time, only to be recycled into shells once again, I’m just another cog in the machinery, spending and being spent, broken and discarded, crushed, only to become the softest sand underfoot. Life is incredibly short. So pick up those pretty shells at the beach, throw back the bad ones, and don’t worry about anything. Those battles in the waves aren’t yours. You have enough trouble with parking and making your flight back home. If you think beyond the moment, though, realize eternity waits for you. Time erases all of us, in the end. All your hurrying will be forgotten, just like all the battles waged underwater. Ecclesiastes 8:14–15
If you haven't asked Jesus into your heart, wouldn't you like to? You can say a simple prayer like this: "Lord Jesus, if I've never asked you into my heart before, please come into my heart now and save me from all my sins." If you mean it, He will, and you just started your walk with God.
Thank you for reading. And God bless.
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