Note: I'm on the beach in Ocean City, huddled in a hotel room finishing out my personal planning retreat. I wrote this yesterday afternoon during a particularly poignant moment of spiritual awareness and desire. My prayer is that it sparks something similar in you.
I’m strolling back and forth in this hotel room waiting for God to meet with me.
“I’m like Moses,” I pray; “shuffling through the wilderness.”
Was he hoping to meet with you like I am? I don’t know. I just know that he saw that bush – burning, yet unburned. And that he stopped, paused, listened. You spoke, and he turned aside to see.
Moses didn’t plant that bush! Moses didn’t plan that moment! He just responded. The initiative was yours alone.
Yet so many of my attempts to experience you seem so contrived, so forced, so feeble. Do I manufacture much of my own spirituality, hard hat lopsided on my sweat-stained brow, hammer in hand, diligently constructing epiphanies because I'm too impatient to wait for you to place them in my path?
Come meet with me, God. Right here, right now. Meet with me. Are you around this corner? Are you hiding on the other side of the bed?
And I’m immediately aware that I am a wicked man. Redeemed, possessing a renewed mind – yet still struggling with a dozen sinful yearnings. Still unfinished, Lord. Still incomplete.
Unfit to be met with by God.
So I feel the fear that is prelude to your presence. I know I need to repent, and I speak the words. But I still want you to come. Meet me just like I am, right here. If there’s any purging to be done, I want you to do it. My efforts at readying myself are, in the end I think, futile.
Something about me and the ocean. Its scale, I guess. Vastness. Sheer size. It makes me think of you and shiver with trepidation and wonder as I do.
I make my way over to the door that leads to the balcony. I crack it open slightly; it’s cold. Down below, far away from my 12th story perch, I see a lone figure, diminutive against the sand. He’s sweeping a metal detector back and forth rapidly over the unending blondness of the beach, looking for something.
“I’m looking too!” I cry out, startled a bit at the sound of my own voice. “I’m looking too.”
Searching for treasure, you and I. Alone.
What’s he looking for? Cans to be turned in for a nickel apiece? Or a gold ring with shreds of diamond crowded around a single, costly stone, left behind by some well-to-do woman amidst the brightness and ruckus of a summer vacation? She took it off and laid it on her towel for a moment and one of her children (the younger one, towheaded and foolhardy), distracted her and she forgot and later she scooped that towel up and headed toward the car and left it behind so a man down on his luck could find it and barter it away…
He’s found something, this brave, cold searcher. He stoops; shovels; and while fighting off the encroaching waves he retrieves it from the sand. He wipes it off, shakes it a bit. He and it are too far away for me to know if its refuse or riches.
Whatever it is, it’s not worth leaving the beach for. His frantic sweeping resumes; a new intensity to its rhythm. He reengages the barrenness, hoping it holds something more.
Meet with me, God.
And let the you I find be worth leaving everything for. Let the you I find signal that my longing can be over.
Meet with me and I’ll toss my metal detector into the chilly waves and walk away from this search, my footprints gone by midnight, my life forever yours. Pop up out of the sand a thousand feet from where I am, and then call me over to where you are. Make it clear that I have not found you; that my looking wasn’t the means of my discovery; that my hunt would have proven fruitless if you had not come. Make it so apparent that I laugh out loud, sheepishly at first and then ecstatically, as I dance around this desert place like a delighted schoolboy before running headlong toward you. Found by what I was looking for.