This past weekend I was in Florida, walking the beaches of Siesta Key and Venice Beach, thrilling to the sound of the waves and the beauty of the vast expanse of ocean meeting a sky filled with dramatically elongated clouds. Being the scavenger that I am, I could not help but keep my eyes down at the plethora of shells that crunched beneath my feet. I only brought five or so home for one simple reason. Most were shattered. The tantalizing part of the whole search was the fact that there were large pieces of very unique and stunning shells. I saw several sizable hunks of large sand dollars. I saw busted up conch shells, ridged pieces of heaven-knows-what, shiny bits of other things I couldn't identify. It was maddening. On and on it went down the beach. The old cliche returned to mind about God using shattered things. I thought about how, if I wanted to, I could take hundreds of these bits and glue them together to make a gorgeous picture frame. None was complete alone, but together they would be absolutely stunning.
The same principle holds true with our lives. We might think the terrible storms that break us down are simply destructive. They are, however, quite constructive. The humbler we are, the closer we are to God and His purposes for our lives. Broken people are beautifully useful in the kingdom of heaven if they allow God to put them back together in the manner of His choosing.
The broken shell principle played out in another capacity when my son and I were walking on the beach at sunset, taking lots of photos. We came upon a woman holding another woman's head in her lap. We asked if anything was wrong. The upright woman said she thought the lady had had a stroke and that an ambulance was on the way. The other woman lay apparently unconscious at first glance. Then I saw her eyes flutter. I asked if she could talk and the woman helping her said that she could not. I asked if there was anything I could do. She said she did not think so. "I can't leave you alone here," I said, and proceeded to stand impotently by. I said a silent prayer for healing. "Do you know her name," I asked. The kneeling woman said she did not, and asked if I could try and find it in the woman's phone. I quickly passed this task off to my son, who did find it.
I just stood there, not wanting to intrude but desperately wishing there was something I could do. At some point a very kind man in his sixties asked if we had help on the way. When we assured him that we did, he kneeled in the sand and took the stricken woman by the hand. Now there were two complete strangers murmuring comfort and holding both of her hands. I leaned in and asked her if she felt better and she looked at me and seemed to nod, though she was still unable to speak. The woman who had discovered her called a relative on the woman's contacts list and explained what was happening. The paramedics came and I took my jacket off of her legs and got out of the way. We quickly left the scene but the woman's face stayed in my mind the rest of the evening.
Just like the pieces of gorgeous shells strewn on the beach that night that, glued together would make a beautiful whole, several of us surrounded the stricken woman to form a lovely circle of concern. She did not know any of us and some of us (like me) had a tiny part, but we all together touched her in her moment of need, right down to the tiny boy (about four years old) who came running forward to tell us with great import that "the police are here." We've all got a beautiful part to play in life. One day at a time.
