An Ocean of Stories: Side by Side

I suppose in many ways it was a silly dream. One that seemed to have no purpose other than just fancy. Just whimsy. Just wistful thinking. But I dreamed it anyway. Just one of those tucked away little things. But it was my silly, whimsical and wistful dream. 

Our second day at the beach we spent the entire day there. From early in the morning until the evening. We left only to grab lunch and rehydrate and refuel.

As I walked onto the beach that day I expressed this little hope dream. Just said it right out loud. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing truly profound. Nothing overly exciting.

“I want to build a sand castle,” 

Steve looked at me. “What kind of sand castle do you want to build?” 

“A big one!”

He laughed. No, he did not laugh at me, but with the laugh that indulges all my idiosyncrasies, the laugh that says he enjoys my quirks and the laugh that fuels my wishes (which often don’t fit with the said appropriateness for a middle-aged woman).

“Let’s build one!”

And so it began. This dream wish of mine.

We didn’t have any real tools. No molds. No bucket. No shovel.

Steve asked me what kind of castle. Round? Square?  Towers? Moat?

Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

We played like children. Engrossed and immersed in our task. Two people grown, playing in the sand

I found a large bottle cap and began to carry water from the ocean to the building site. Steve found a broken piece of plastic shovel and a piece of cardboard. Eventually I finished drinking a bottle of water, and so my transporting of water became a much easier and more productive endeavor. But I still used the bottle cap; it was just the right size for wetting the places Steve was working. Steve held and pressed the cardboard against the walls of the castle to make them square, and I filled in the gaps with wet sand. Steve’s huge hands patted and pressed and flattened. Mine brushed, smoothed and rounded.

We had to change our design. Several times our towers crumbled and our walls shifted and slid. Or an idea simply didn’t work, but it didn’t seem to matter. We simply altered our plans and began again.

We built quietly. Intently. Diligently. Three word instructions or directions passed between us. For every creative endeavor each one of us introduced the other one would follow with matching and complimentary creativity. We didn’t discuss how we wanted the castle to look or even how big to make it. We simply worked together. Side by side.

One purpose. One goal. One vision.

And we used what we had. We used the tools given us. We employed what we already possessed.

And we worked side by side. We make a good team.

When we declared it finished we took way too many photos mostly because we understand the ways of the beach. We knew there would be a chance when we returned that the castle would be gone. For whatever reason.

Then we dipped in the ocean to cool our hot, sweaty and sandy selves. We left the beach to get lunch (that’s another story!). When we traipsed back a couple of hours later to our surprise and delight the castle remained. Another interesting thing? When we left only our castle stood on our stretch of the beach, but when we returned several other castles rose up from the sand around ours. And strangely enough the architects of those castles had copied details from ours.

I have built castles in the sand before. I have erected structures on the shores, but that day with Steve my morning dream became a reality. It had been accomplished together.

Side by Side.

This castle was far different than I had originally foreseen. The sand castle was more substantial and solid than I expected. And our castle of sand was far more beautiful than I ever imagined.

But isn’t that the way of the wondrous grace of God?

An Ocean of Stories: The Two Towers

I hadn’t seen a water-dripped castle in a very long time. This effect caused the castle to look like two ancient and worn monoliths. Eroded over time by water and wind.  In the bright, hot sun they almost looked out of place. Certainly they were not your typical castles of sand. They were not made with preformed molds and plastic buckets. They weren’t square or even exactly round. The two towers protruded up out of the sand—momentary monuments of someone’s efforts and time.

The castle mesmerized me. I studied it. From every angle. It wasn’t elaborate. It wasn’t intricate. It wasn’t complicated. It was simple.

Its architects, however, were gone. Not a trace of them remained other than the two towers rising out of the sand.

We reclined in our beach chairs, low to the ground, and watched the people on the beach around us. The sun beat down, but a breeze was blowing (because of the coming storm) and it kept our skin cool.

Two gangly boys kept walking past us. Maybe nine or ten years old. Shirtless and barefoot. Their swimming trunks hung from their narrow athletic bodies and their heads were crowned with blond tousled messes. Their knees and shoulders and elbows were knobby angles. Their feet were already too big for their bodies. They ambled across the beach kicking sand.  Their meandering always brought them around to the castle. Each time they made a pass they would stop and look a little longer. At first I thought they were the builders, but soon their attitudes told me differently.

As I watched them I knew what was going to happen. You do too. These boys were contemplating knocking the two towers down. I felt coming. On the third or fourth pass one boy, the taller one, flung out his arm and took off the top half of one of the towers.  

I winced.

The second boy joined the first. Another flat-handed hit and the bridge fell. Another and the top of the second tower fell. Then with four or five arm swings and strategic kicks they leveled the sand castle. Nothing remained but a hollow and gaping hole.

As I watched I felt very sorry for the builders. I hoped they weren’t witnessing the boys’ free-for-all.What I really wanted was for them to be far down the beach or on their way home.

Nonchalantly the boys walked away. They never looked back. Not once.

It wasn’t their castle. They had nothing invested in the designing or the building of it. They knew it would collapse easily.

I understand that this was just a sand castle. These were just young boys. Anyone who builds a castle on the beach knows that at some point the castle will be gone. It’s inevitable. It is a sad, but true code of the beach.

But what caused me to pause was the bent toward destruction. What disturbed me was this nonchalant annihilation of someone else’s architectural endeavors.

I realized that at some point in life we have someone in our lives who destroys our dreams or we destroy someone else’s dreams. Occasionally we are just simply a bystander. But all of us at one time or another have knocked someone’s castle down or have experienced partial or a complete demolition of our own.  

We spend time building these elaborate dreams—shaky structures attesting to our goals and ambitions. We take the risk; we take the chance that they might remain for a little while. But the counter chance of this is that someone or something will come and tear down or even destroy these castles of ours.

Perhaps maliciously. Maybe haphazardly. Possibly just an accident.  

People’s dreams are fragile—like water dripped from cupped hands building frail monuments of grainy sand and salty water.  

More than anyone our enemy knows the frailty and instability of our castles. This enemy understands and is bent on destruction. He wants to level the desires and hopes of our hearts. He wants to knock our castles down and leave gaping, hollow holes. He comes to steal, to kill and to destroy. That’s his purpose. That’s his goal. It will not be haphazard. It will not be accidental. It will be malicious. It will be intentional.

Jesus warned us about the enemy and his intentions. He instructed us to build not on sand, but on rock. He asserted that the foundation is the most vital and important element in any structure.

Friends, if we are going to build castles and towers then let us build on something substantial and stable and strong. Let us build on Him. On His Word.

Storms, rains, streams, wind and little boys will come. The enemy will meander along our beaches. 

Please, dear Friends, please don't quit building. Don't stop the slow water-dripping of dreams. We have to build anyway. 

But know and count and stand on this: the enemy cannot destroy what has been built on rock. He cannot level what has been established on God’s promises, on his mercies and on his grace.  

·                           

An Ocean of Stories: The Storm

  

Standing in the ocean with the froth and the foam I watched the sky.

That first day on the beach was strange. The clouds were heavy and dark, billowing and rolling toward the ocean. We watched them come. The sky was an odd color, no longer just another hue of the ocean’s palette. We were thigh deep in the salty water and the waves were becoming choppier, pushing against us with more force.

Lightning sparked in the sky and then thunder cracked and rolled—echoing out over the breadth of the water—it was startling and unexpected. To see the lightning break that vast sky was a little unnerving. But even then the leisure of the beach atmosphere did not lend to people jumping out of the water quickly. Everyone took their time gathering and packing up for the day. Everyone was reluctant to be too quick to leave. There was a thin thread of the vacation kind of hope: perhaps it would blow over, move out over the ocean and not affect this space, this expanse of water and sky.  

Certainly we didn’t want to leave. Had we not waited for this forever? To put our feet in the sand and plunge our hands and heads beneath the surface? Hadn’t we driven for far too long and anticipated far too much for it to be ruined by a storm?

We stood in the water and watched the lightning. The lines were jagged and slashed the sky for just split seconds with more and more frequency.

We waded out of the water, pulling our heavy legs along with us. Experiencing the weightlessness of the water through the buoyancy of the salt had lightened the load we daily carry.  And we hated to leave that ease.

We packed all our strewn belongings and began to walk back to our little resort. Our flip flops made lots of strange noises and sand ground between our toes.

Inside we dropped all the beach paraphernalia by the front door, dried off and changed clothes. And that’s all the time it took. The storm hit. Actually it blasted. The rain pounded against the glass in sheets of slate gray. The wind whipped the giant palms outside our door, bending not only the fronds but the trunks first one way and then another. We looked out the windows and only the faint outlines of buildings and structures could be traced. It was early evening, but it was dark. And the dark was looming and tight against us, not the soft falling darkness after sunset on the beach.

The storm grew—building in its ferocity.

For a brief moment I was a little unnerved. It had been a long time since I had seen this kind of intensity in a summer storm, but I walked to our sun room windows and watched it from behind the glass. Instead of increasing my anxiety I found a quiet place of peace—an utterly still place. This is a place that can’t be drummed up or coerced.

We were in the middle of the storm, but we were sheltered, protected from the onslaught.

I left the window and we settled in with books, TV, ice cream and popcorn. We curled up in tight balls, all our limbs pulled in tightly to our bodies (except Steve). Later we went to bed and while we were sleeping the storm raged over and across the ocean, dying slowly down.

We woke the next morning wondering if our one full day at the beach would be marred by rain and more storms. But the storm was gone. It had left evidence of its presence. Water stood on the street almost ankle deep in places. On the sidewalks the water puddled  and debris littered the parking lot. Chairs were strewn wildly about within the pool enclosure. Broken palm fronds lay on our walkways.  Later we learned that during the storm a waterspout was spotted not far from us. But this morning the sun shone, glittering in the puddles and warming the standing water. The air smelled clean. The sky was brilliant blue and cloudless with little evidence of the battle of the night before.

Storms come. They happen. Regardless. =

We can predict them. Sometimes. We can watch for favorable conditions and patterns and currents, but all of these are only educated guesses based on often arbitrary percentages.  Some are only showers and sprinklings, but others are like our fierce and violent ocean variety.

We want God to stop the storms or pull us OUT of them. We want him to make them go around us or to blow right over. We don’t want storms in our lives. They frighten us. They unnerve us. They scare us. They inconvenience us. They trap us.

In our angst we ask for there to be no storms. We tend to equate the absence of storms as the approval or the affirmation of God’s presence.

This is not truth. Ask Joseph. Ask Jochebed. Ask Esther. Ask Daniel. Ask Peter. Ask Mary Magdalene. Ask Bonhoeffer. Ask Corrie ten Boom. Ask Mac Goddard. 

The affirmation of God’s presence comes in the still place, the quiet place, in the midst of the storm.  That peace comes when we look at the storm and realize we are sheltered from the onslaught. We know this. We’ve heard this truth touted too many times to count. And yet the clichéd use of this metaphor does not negate its truth.

We’re so afraid life is going to be ruined because of the storms. This belief causes ulcers and anxiety and fear. We worry we won’t be prepared to weather the storm. We agonize we won’t be able to endure the severity or the length of it. Because of these thoughts we often ignore the warning signs: the lightning, the thunder and the wind.

But our God will shelter us. He will cover us. He will put us in a safe place even while the storm rages right around us. We can go to sleep in the midst of the fiercest of storms if we know and are convinced that He is good and that He can be trusted.

And when we wake the next morning there will be little evidence of the battle during the night except that we have learned to trust Him a little more. 

An Ocean of Stories: Forgetting and Remembering

On Tuesday we drove (Again! Life is full of driving) to Indian Shores. Indian Shores sits on a narrow peninsula and in a sense you feel like you are on an island.

Our resort told us that we were just steps from the beach. Just steps. What they failed to tell us was that those steps crossed the major highway that ran through Indian Shores. There was a crosswalk, but it was not my idea of steps away from the beach. This just proves that we can look at anything virtually on the web, but it will never show us exactly how something really is. I got over this quickly—a few steps was far closer to the ocean than I had been in years, so I quickly quenched the complaining.

If there are any men reading this post, please ignore me. You can skip these next few paragraphs and just move along. I know you really just don’t get this kind of thinking. But the ladies do. They know. They understand.

Here’s a real kicker and dilemma about the beach: putting on a bathing suit is very close to a nightmare. NO, it’s worse than a nightmare because nightmares are usually confined to your room and inside your head—my bathing suit clad body was not. I tried to avoid mirrors or windows, but it was inevitable.

I had a decision to make. I could go down to the beach and wallow and worry and whimper (which would lead to withdrawing) about what I looked like or I could go down to the beach and laugh and play and worship. Those were my options. Those were my choices. One or the other.

That first day back at the beach I realized I had grown-up. Forty-seven years of living certainly had its dividends. I forgot that I didn’t look like the cover of Shape magazine.

I forgot? No, I think I finally understood that I didn’t have to look like those covers—it’s not required. Not by my husband (who really does love ME.) and not by God (who loves ME even more). To look good in a bathing suit is not a prerequisite for doing what I was called to do. I tried to tell myself the same thing years ago, tried to convince myself of these exact truths, but I was just too young in many ways to understand. But that day, that beautiful glorious afternoon I donned my red and white bathing suit, put on my white cover-up, slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops, put my red sunglasses on top of my head and threw my beach chair over my shoulder and walked those few steps to the beach.

I spent that first hour at the beach getting reacquainted with the ocean. I felt like she was an old friend I had not seen in a long time—there’s an old familiarity, but there’s this time of remembering and returning and readjusting. For a long time I just stood in the water and gave myself time to remember the ocean’s rhythms and her steadiness and her force. I had forgotten that even on the edge of the shore the waves could rock me, and the sand would slip out from under my feet. I had forgotten the sinking, the endless whish and roar. I had forgotten the foam and spray. I had forgotten so many things.

But the remembering. Oh, the remembering and then the immediate experiencing was nothing short of delicious. I even enjoyed the grit of the sand and the salt on the upper line of my top lip. I relished the raucous caw of the seagulls and the tropical scent of sunscreen. I was engulfed and dwarfed by the endless curving horizon and the vast bowl of the sky.   

Somewhere in the crevices of my heart I remembered the words of the psalmist and I truly, deeply understood them:

                                                      

The seas have lifted up, O Lord,

 the seas have lifted up their voice;

 the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.

 Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,

 mightier than the breakers of the sea—

 the Lord on high is mighty.

   Psalm 93:3-4

An Ocean of Stories: The High Five Life

On Monday night we ate at Crabby Bill’s. Our waitress seated us at a table on the deck overlooking the marina. The breeze was cool and the sun was descending in the sky. The same sun had tinged our skin earlier in the day, and we were hungry.

It was a strange thing—we held little alligators at Wild Willy’s, but we were eating alligator as our appetizer that night. Something seemed a little wrong with that picture. The evening was leisurely. Slow. Unhurried. (Are you picking up the theme of this vacation yet?). No agenda. No plan. We walked along the dock of the marina afterwards; perhaps we were hoping to see the alligators that we were warned not to feed under any circumstances.

Afterwards Abby wanted a Sonic drink:  Route 44 Cherry Coke Zero. So, off we went. Across the street was a frozen yogurt eatery, and I decided we needed to go there. This is rare. I am not fond of ice cream. Rarely do I eat it, and I don’t initiate getting it. But that night after the day on the water and the seafood I suppose I wanted something cold and chocolate.

We were still talking about Captain Dan and the day. Replaying and revisiting the adventure. The discussion centered on how God shows up in the oddest of ways. We walked into this yogurt place, filled our bowls and sat down to eat. And while we were shoveling our cold concoctions into our mouths we read the flyers on the tables and began looking around.

Apparently this was not an ordinary frozen yogurt eatery.

The main wall held a ten foot bulletin board covered with old photographs. The pattern was repetitive, but it was obvious that these were photographs of a real family. The flyer on the table explained that these were pictures of four generations of one family. One family who decided to embrace life. A family who wanted to squeeze as much good and adventure out of living as they could. They believed we should have High Five moments in our lives. And we should celebrate them. Thus, this yogurt eatery was born and named HighFive your life Yogurt.

This place was birthed because someone decided to embrace life for all its worth.

I thought the imagery was remarkable. When we high five someone it is often to acknowledge a job well done, an accomplishment, a joint endeavor carried out well and a celebration. High fiving our lives—who wouldn’t want to live that way?

A flat screen TV was mounted above the counter. Scrolling and looping were images of customers who had visited this place, who had experienced an adventure and wanted to share it.

Steve leaned over to me, “We should upload our airboat photo to their website.” I agreed (we’ve yet to do it, but that’s okay.)

I sat perched on the edge of my chair, my elbows leaning on the table. I was eating my chocolate yogurt (with chocolate chips, hot fudge and pecans). But my mind was not there.

Could I high five my life? Were there seasons or times when I could look back and think: yes, that was a high five moment? Yes, that was a high five season? Yes, I could.

But I was thinking of something more. Connecting dots. Seems as if I am forever connecting dots.

Regardless of what many might think rarely do high five moments occur at random. They are most often the result of hard work, dedication and a diligent pursuit in one focused direction.

During our trip Abby used her phone to connect us to music. Now, I don’t enjoy music quite like my girls. I like it, but I tend to not have it in the background at all times. But there was a track that Abby played often while we were gone and I grew to love the songs on that track a great deal. It was our trip soundtrack.

One of the songs was a cover of The Lumineers’ Ho Hey by the Stella Sisters. These two young girls (14 and 9) seem to have gained world wide notice because of one video on Youtube. These girls’ voices astounded me so much that I decided to do some research concerning them. Over and Over I read and heard the phrase over night success. Sudden rise to stardom. Yet, these young girls are the daughters of a husband and wife duo who have been nominated for three CMA awards in 2012. Their parents’ (The Stellas)  voices are incredible. Lennon and Maisy grew up in a house of music, instruments and voices. They did not obtain overnight success because of one song. No, the girls chose to play instruments and stretch their voices instead of watching TV. Their parents sang to them even before they were born and ever since. And every lullaby was an investment that has resulted in high five dividends for the girls now.

In the spring of this year I attended a simulcast that featured Priscilla Shirer. She told us that someone had asked her how her bible studies and the Going Beyond Ministry became such successes seemingly overnight. Priscilla laughed. Overnight? Priscilla is the daughter of Tony Evans. Author. Speaker. Minister. Her mother is an author. Priscilla grew up hearing the word of God taught and preached and written. For ten years Priscilla and her husband worked to establish and build the Going Beyond ministry. It was after this that Lifeway contacted her about doing a bible video series. Does that sound like overnight success? Priscilla’s high five lifestyle is a result of the prayer and investment of many people.

Bob Goff, author of Love Does, and his wife created a rite of passage for his three children. The “ten year old adventure”. When each child turned ten they were allowed and encouraged to choose a destination or event with their dad. Any place. Anything. (The stories are amazing; you can read them in chapter 20 of Love Does!) These rites of passages became monumental high five moments in the children and their parents’ lives. But as much as they appear to be spontaneous (there was little agenda and planning during the trip) Bob and his Maria “made a pact early in [their] marriage”* for these adventures to happen. They made choices that enabled them to set aside money and funds and time.

Do you see a pattern?

High five moments and lifestyles do NOT just happen.

They happen because someone invested something.

Deep down inside we want to live a high five life. We want adventure. We want excitement. We want exhilaration. We want to feel alive.

I know I do.

I ate my yogurt, but while I did I prayed.

And I am praying still.

I am finishing this post while at my daughter’s house watching Elijah. And as I sat here at her kitchen table typing I have cried. What’s new, right?

No, I have cried because I want my children to experience life as God has intended—the abundant, good, beyond-your-wildest-imaginations, high five kind of life. I want David, my son-in-law, to know that following after God is at times as crazy and wild as wakeboarding behind a boat that’s moving at least 32 mph. I want all of them to be aware and attuned to the marvelous synchronicities of this walk God has called us to—it’s hard. It’s very hard, but it’s good.

Therefore, I am praying, around and around, that God will show and enable me to make investments and choices that will contribute to my own high five life, but even more to my children, my grandchildren and my husband’s high five lives. I want them to have incredible lives.

I want them to live the Grand Adventure.

·        Goff, Bob. Love Does. Page 128

An Ocean of Stories: Exhilaration

The Airboat!

Steve, Tamera and Abby

We’ve met Captain Dan, and because of him I will always relish that hour long tour. He wove his own story seamlessly into his route, and his signature was evident. Partly because of that signature I will remember the tour, but there are other reasons. Again, not quite the reasons I expected. 

Airboats are loud. The great fan welded to the back of the hull is enormous. A whirring monstrosity. When we were seated Captain Dan handed us bumblebee yellow earphones. Large ones. I had to hold mine to my head with both hands. (My head is smaller than an average twelve year olds, and that can cause issues at times). I didn’t like the headphones partly for reasons that I won’t bother to tell you.

When Captain Dan slowed the boat to idle speed or stop it completely we took them off and the whir still buzzed in our ears.

Captain Dan was completely at ease; this lake was his element. He didn’t sound like your usual tour guide with the sometimes monotonous I’m-bored-out-of-my-mind voice. He was conversational, easy and slow. The only thing hurried about the whole trip happened when he decided to open up the boat full throttle and show off. But there we sat on Captain Dan’s porch looking out over his vast back yard.

He whipped the boat around, running through grasses so tall that they topped the fan cage. Our hair (mine and abby’s) flew and whipped and snapped. Even behind my sunglasses I squinted because of the force of the wind. The entire time as we hovered and skimmed over that lake Abby was grinning. A wide-open, flat out grin that split her face. All teeth and all joy. I have a feeling that, like me, she was shouting inside.

Captain Dan brought the boat into a shallow place in the lake. He idled it down to a complete stop. He then stood up and said, “Do you see her?”

My eyes began to dart. Back and forth. I was searching. Because of his use of the female pronoun I knew we were looking for a mama alligator. She was somewhere close, and at least visible to Captain Dan. I don’t remember which one saw her first. But there she was. Just the dome of her skull was above the water line. The ridge of her eyes and the top of her snout were above the water and absolutely motionless. Not an alligator in an aquarium. Not an alligator behind glass. No, a real live alligator in the wild. Beside her was a mound of twigs and dirt and mud and leaves. Apparently inside were her fifteen to twenty eggs. And she was guarding them.

The Mama Alligator is circled. She was over 7 feet long!

Captain Dan began to talk to her in this sing-songy voice that she obviously recognized. He explained that these gators knew the captains’ voices. (a little like sheep, but more lethal.) They responded to their voices and them by NOT showing agitation and aggression.  

Slowly he moved the boat away from her, idled into the safe zone and then put that boat into a gear that sent our shoulders and heads back against the cracked vinyl benches. I was sandwiched between Abby and Steve, so I didn’t move as much. Abby and Steve felt far more of the turn and pull. Captain Dan spun that boat in a circle. Yes, a complete 360° turn. The front of the hull lifted out of the water and we leaned to the left—our bodies shifting. Water flew in stretched droplets splattering our arms. The spray shot up like a fountain in front of us. Nothing could be heard over the motor, but I could feel my laughter rippling out over the water.

Out in the middle of the lake endangered hawks perched menacingly on poles and branches in the water. They sat like sentinels; their keen, hard eyes roved across the dark, gray water searching for their lunch. Great, pale herons gingerly made their way through the water. Aloof and regal. They took off in flight, and I would take a deep intake of breath. Their great bodies lifted effortlessly and elegantly out of the water. And for just a few seconds I went with them.

Huge great cypress trees encompassed the lake. Massive trunks lifted their branches far above the waters, and the thick tendrils of Spanish moss hung down like curtains. Time seemed to be suspended during that hour. And it felt ancient. Not old. Not dated. But ancient. When the birds flew you could almost feel their great feathered wings move the currents of air, and you could hear the low gurgling and rippling of the water. And there was stillness over it all. A suspension. And for a brief while we were caught in that suspension.

There was a moment on that boat that my spirit grew too large for the cavity of my chest. I couldn’t breath deeply enough, and my eyes couldn’t see far enough, and my ears couldn’t hear close enough. I looked over at Abby and then at Steve and wondered if they were feeling the same.

Exhilaration.

Feeling utterly, thoroughly alive.

I felt alive. Like finally the air was getting to the small spaces of my lungs. Like every nerve tingled. Like my heart was thumping against the cage of my ribs.

Alive.

This airboat tour, like the fourteen hour drive, had something to teach me. To teach us. It was a small, concentrated frame so that we could see, really see.

We’re on a tour here, Friends, and there’s a great many marvelous things to see and experience. There’s a world that’s filled with the beautiful, the awe-full, the dangerous and the fast. And there’s a world that is slow and ancient and wise and beckoning.

But we need a boat, and we need a captain.

You see, that day all we had to do was get in the boat. Get in the boat, put on our headphones and hold on for the ride. Captain Dan did the rest. He took us to see the wonders. He knew the waters—knew which ones were navigable and where the dangers were hidden. He knew the history of the place and the lore of the realm. He knew why it was relevant to us now. He made us laugh. He cautioned us. He taught us. He made us cry. He answered our questions.

This is a place that God intended us to experience.

This place of feeling alive. The Spirit quickens. The Spirit leads us to these experiences. He draws us to places of exhilaration. And they don’t often present themselves as such at first. We have to be alert, aware and awake to recognize them.

The moments of real, honest exhilaration happen when we recognize and acknowledge Him.

Everything else is just mimicry or a masquerade.  

An Ocean of Stories: Captain Dan

On Monday morning we woke somewhat rested after our fourteen hour car trip. It was earlier than we intended—the room we were sleeping in had a skylight right above our bed. The sun shows courtesy to no one. So, we rose with it—reluctantly climbing out of the luxuriously soft bed.

I have to be honest here. I was grumpy. My whole frame of mind was not yet right from the trip the day and night before, and I just wanted to be still for a little while. You know? During the whole time I’m getting ready I'm having this inner dialogue. The grumpy Tamera was having a justification and rationalization meeting with me.

I tried to redirect my inner dialogue. The stream of prayer that had sent us to sleep only a few hours earlier slowly started to return. We got into the car and started to drive (again).

I remember telling the Lord that I didn’t want to be grumpy. I didn’t want my attitude to be off-kilter. I was hoping He would be patient with me, plain and simple. But I knew the day would be worth very little if I didn’t see Him. Yes, that was it. That’s what I wanted. Somewhere in the midst of this day I wanted God to show up, and I wanted to recognize him when he did.

This inner dialogue continued as we wound around behind St. Cloud. We followed our GPS guide until we found Wild Willy’s. It wasn’t what I expected. It was a small building with Wild Willy’s painted on its side. Homemade signs advertising burgers and dogs and live gators hung on its weathered wooden sides. We didn’t know quite what to do. People were milling around outside.

Inside another a gray haired and gray bearded man stood with a group of excited tourists.  He was helping them hold a little alligator. I couldn’t resist. I reached out to touch this little gator. Steve was waiting for me; he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist touching the gator. He was right. We gave our tickets to the lady at the counter, and she directed us to wait outside on the deck.

The deck was filled with tables and umbrellas and a hanging swing sat off to the side in the yard. We, of course, sat on the hanging swing. A group walked past us and the alligator man told us that our captain would be with us shortly.

Our captain?

A few minutes later down the bank he came. Barrel-chested. Bearded. Round face. Baked to a perfected dark brown. He wore a hat, flip-flops, sunglasses, a large gold ring and a uniform that resembled one of Steve Irwin’s.

He stuck out his hand and made his introductions, “Hey, I’m Captain Dan. I’ll be showing you around today.”

Then he stopped and looked at Steve. Everything went very quiet for just a split second. It was one of those moments that you are just sure is going to go awkward if someone doesn’t say or do anything quickly.

Captain Dan broke the silence. He looked at Steve and asked, “Don’t I know you? Haven’t we met before?”

Steve just shook his head, “No, I don’t think so.”  

Captain Dan studied him a little bit longer, “I saw you walk into the building, and I was just sure I knew you. I even started to say your name, but I couldn’t remember it.”

Abby looked at me bewildered. I realized I was no longer grumpy.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I stepped onto the airboat knowing that this wasn’t just going to be a tour to see alligators. Suddenly they didn’t seem to be the main attraction any more.

During the hour long trip, when the boat was stopped, Captain Dan told us not only a little of Florida’s story, but a little of his own story. It was interspersed with having conversations with a mama alligator that was guarding her nest and showing us water proof lily pads.

He explained why he thought he knew Steve. He recently returned from a ministry conference with a group of men and he just thought sure Steve was one of them. He said this had happened to him before.  

Several years ago during a trip to Tennessee he met another man he thought he knew. They were just convinced they knew each other from someplace before. They kept trading stories trying to decide where, when and if their paths had crossed.  There were many, many places that their paths could have connected, could have intersected.

“Long story short?  Captain Dad explained, “I had never met the man before. Ever. But by the end of our conversation that day I decided that Jesus and faith in him was the route I wanted to travel.”

Captain Dan made a confession of faith with this man he thought he knew. When he left that conversation he was on his way to Damascus, Tennessee.

He’s been loving Jesus ever since.

Funny how God likes to rearrange people’s worlds when they are traveling to Damascus!

When the tour was finished we stood on the bank and talked for a long time. About the Body of Christ and how good God is. But it was Captain Dan who revisited the theme of the day: seeing Steve and the immediate recognition he had felt.

Captain Dan decided that no matter where we go we will recognize the people who belong to the Body of Christ. Maybe not immediately, and it may take a little while to put our finger on it. He explained that there is something in them that draws and pulls a fellow—something that causes us to pause and comment, “Haven’t I seen you before?”

We finished our tour and went back to the main building. Captain Dan wanted to introduce us to Cricket and Sergio, the young alligators. We looked around, bought t-shirts and souvenirs. But there was this niggling feeling in my chest. I know that feeling. I knew we needed to pray with Captain Dan before we left.

We asked him if we could and he responded, “Let’s go. Let’s go right out here.”

He led us outside to the sidewalk at the front of the building and the four of us circled and held hands and we prayed. We had never met Captain Dan before. He had never met us, but we sure prayed as if we had known each other for a long, long time. We prayed for Captain Dan and his ministry there on the water and grasses of Lake Tohopekaliga. We prayed for many more path s to cross and intersect. And I thanked God for letting me see Him. For answering a grumpy woman’s prayers.  There was a deep sense of gratitude and sweetness in the moment.

There in the front yard of Wild Willy’s the Spirit whispered ever so softly, “You get what you ask for.”

You get what you ask for. I had wanted an adventure. But as usual, as always, God went above and beyond. A real adventure changes us. It makes a mark on our inner terrain. It is not just a thrill or a high, but it is an experience that can be revisited. Learned from. And shared.

What an amazingly crazy experience. Why I was surprised I am not sure. Why I wasn’t in expectation mode after my morning prayer I’m baffled.

I’d come for a tour to see the native wildlife and scenery of Florida. When I planned this little excursion I thought it just sounded like a fun adventure for our vacation. It seemed like a ridiculously out of the ordinary jaunt—like Horatio in CSI: Miami. I really wanted my daughter to have something incredible to remember.

Little did I know.

God must have been chuckling at me. The whole, holy Trinity must have just been delighted knowing that the narrowness of my thought and vision were scheduled to be expanded. Only They can orchestrate an intersection of lives in this manner. I had asked to see God. I had asked for him to show up, and I had asked to be able to recognize him.

God shows up in the most unexpected places.

Plain and simple.

Next time you’re in Florida, schedule a tour with Wild Willy’s.

Ask for Captain Dan, if you do.

There’s a chance he’ll recognize you. 

An Ocean of Stories: Fourteen Hours

Our grand adventure began and ended with a fourteen hour car drive and ride. 

Map courtesy of MapQuest.

Three of us drove (well, me less than Steve or Abby).  The first five hours were fun. Everyone was awake and energetic. During these hours the anticipation and eagerness to get to our destination was far greater than the length and width of the car. We noticed everything. We were aware of people in the cars alongside of us. We were attentive to each other. Leisurely we stopped whenever we wanted. We didn’t keep time and it didn’t seem to be counting against us. We ate at Cracker Barrel—a sit down-let’s order-and eat-here kind of meal. Hurry had not infiltrated our thoughts about the trip yet.

During the next four hours we were beginning to feel the affects of being in a car for so long. Scenery became an endless stretch of billboard signs—advertising things that normally we would have ignored, but in our road trip stupor they became absurdly funny. We started counting off our trip in increments based on the next major city or state border. Atlanta and her sometimes eight and ten lanes of traffic proved to be more beast than beauty. 

The last five hours I don’t remember very well. They are a blur of headlight beams, traffic lights and interstate signage indicating that our destination was still much too far away. It was a period of time of tingling legs and twisted clothes and wishing the book bag was in the trunk. I fell asleep for short periods of time, joggled to a weird state of napping by the constant clicks of the wheels rolling across the asphalt. I woke disoriented; at first I didn’t know if I was in the back seat or the front. We became experts at watching the exit signs to make sure there would be places for pit stops. To empty and to refill. I washed my hands so many times I lost count, and I chewed a whole pack of gum. My Burt’s Bees chap stick began to disappear.

We talked about a lot of issues and ideas while we drove. We listened to music, and we rode in silence. We read. Page after page after page. Novels. Biographies. Memoirs. Scripture. We tried to decipher directions from the MapQuest lady. We answered texts and sent them.

There was no real bickering. Just light-hearted ribbing and teasing. No are we there yets?. There was laughter. And there were sighs. There was a great deal of quarreling about the semis on the road. Often they didn’t seem to detect our presence in the lanes next to them. They just scooted right over assuming that we would quickly move out of the way if we felt like we were in danger.

And steadily through it all was a quiet, narrow stream of prayer. Narrow, not broad. Shallow, not deep. But it was there. It was a trickle of water like the faucet had been forgotten, not quite twisted hard enough to shut the valve.

There was too much noise and static and movement for it to be more. But the stream remained.

When we finally arrived at our house and fell into bed at 1:30 am. I do remember stepping out of the stupor and realizing that we were at our destination. We were exhausted, but we were safe. 

We had arrived.

I remember lying in the curve of my husband’s shoulder and not being able to keep the stream inside my head any longer. Even in my state of exhaustion I was grateful. Thankful. And we prayed aloud in that close, dark room. Not a long prayer. Not a deep prayer. But we thanked our God for the blessings he had poured out in just the last fourteen hours alone. And then we fell asleep between the cool, soft sheets.

The fourteen hours on the return trip were not so pretty. Actually they had some real ugly on them. Most of what was mentioned before happened again—except hurry was the mantra.

Get there. Get there. Get there.

No leisurely stopping. No Cracker Barrel sit-downs. The trip home was one of haste. It was one of irritability and snapped replies. And far more sighs than laughter. Far more annoyance than patience.

I know what was missing on the return trip. At least for me. I know what was absent—the trickle of prayer. The steady little stream. Thus, at the end of the trip gratitude did not come. There was a forgetfulness and a negligence of thanksgiving. There was no bowing of our heads in this quiet acknowledgment that once again God had seen us safely through another journey.

Same trip. Same route. Same people.

But at the end of this trip everyone went to bed disgruntled. Withdrawn. Injured from the whiplash of the ride.

Prayer (at least for me) had been forgotten. In my hurry to return I turned the water faucet too tight. Hurry and speed had robbed us.  

Get there.

Get there replaced let’s enjoy every minute of this.

I remember the two fourteen hour segments with far different sentiments and perspectives: one with something bordering on delight and the other with something akin to disgust.

And isn’t that life? Aren’t these fourteen hour segments similar to our lives?

It’s cliché to say that life is a journey. In modern vernacular: a road trip. But it’s true regardless. We have a destination. We have somewhere we want to be.  

During these fourteen hour segments we always have devices and books available to help us maneuver the tricky sections in the road. We have friends who are praying for us—praying for our well being. Praying for us to catch a glimpse of God, even if it is just the back of his head. 

However, there are times we get tired. We get hungry. We get bored. We get zoned. We get hateful. We get annoyed. We get apathetic. We get ungrateful.

My question?

Which fourteen hour segment will we choose the most?

Which one will become our regular, maybe not always,  reaction and response? Remember it’s the same fourteen hour segment regardless. No matter how you divide the trip it still has to be driven.

I know this for certain—you sleep a whole lot better, a whole lot deeper, a whole lot longer when you fall asleep telling Him thank you.

An Ocean of Stories

This post begins a series of pieces about our 2013 vacation. I'm not sure how many posts this series will contain. We'll see what happens.


By the narrowest definition I am not a Southern woman. I do not like sweet tea or anything sweet other than chocolate. I can’t bake light flaky biscuits (I have tried to learn because my husband loves them). I like very few of the comfort foods associated with the south: macaroni and cheese and grits. I do have an accent. I stretch the diphthongs of my personal pronoun you, and I often receive strange looks from others about my colloquiums. But I’ve only worn a dress three times in the last five years and not one time did I wear heels—not even wedges.

I am a border state woman. Kentucky—a place known for riding the cusp of events and eras and culture. Sometimes we are behind the edge in modern culture and trends, but I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. But sometimes, such as in the circumstances of the Civil War, we just weren’t and aren’t able to put our said foot down soundly on one side or another.

During our vacation I read Sophie Hudson’s A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet. Hudson is the author of the blog: BooMama. Her book is delightful—full of wonderful stories and recollections of a Mississippian family. These stories quietly teach some deep life lessons. I believe we all have stories to tell. Whether we are Donald Miller, Ann Voskamp, Sophie Hudson or Mark Buchanan.

Perhaps that is the one mantle of being a Southern woman I do wear: I like to tell stories.

No, I love to tell stories.

This past week we (Steve, Abby and I) have been on vacation. Now for most families to be on vacation during the summer would not be out of the ordinary, but Steve and I have not been on an extended vacation for over five years. (Now, let’s be honest here: five years ago my husband moved from Santa Monica, California where he lived eight blocks from the ocean—that would seem like a perpetual vacation to me. He often rode his bicycle down to the beach and along a bike path that ran a course of almost twenty miles. Humph is all I have to say.)

This year we planned a vacation. The two of us sat down and actually looked at places to go and things to do. We consulted Abby. Steve’s parents offered us their home in St. Cloud, Florida. They are snowbirds and winter there and live the rest of the year in Tennessee. Their home became the central point of our vacation. We looked first at tourist sites and activities to do in the local area. Their house sits almost on the edge of one of Florida’s largest lakes and this fact, of course, offers a whole myriad of adventures. We planned several things: an hour long airboat ride on Lake Tohopekaliga and a feast at a medieval jousting event just to name a few. Although St. Cloud is an extraordinarily beautiful and exceptional town it lacked one thing: the ocean.

You have to understand (and if you are a close friend of mine you know this and are probably smiling right now, nodding your head) that I love the ocean. No, I don’t just mean like the ocean or enjoy being at the ocean. I love the ocean.

I have asked many, many friends to tell her hello for me and that I miss her. And those precious friends have written my name in the sand, stood on the shore and prayed for me and whispered my name out over the waves. I fear that I sound a little mystically loopy (too late I know), but the ocean draws me. It speaks to me. It pulls me as if I am tethered to its vastness. There is something in my soul that connects to the rhythms, patterns, sounds, scents, visuals and even the taste of the ocean. I can stand for a very long time and just watch and listen, and I can walk and walk and walk along the edge of its boundaries.




My first sight of the Gulf in nine years.



Morning walk on the b each.

I have seen the Atlantic at four different points along the eastern coast of the US and three in the Gulf and three in the Caribbean. (But someday. Oh, someday I want to see the Atlantic from the coast of Ireland!)

The ocean is one of my thin places. It’s the place where I often hear and see God the plainest and the quickest and the deepest. The ocean is where I completely uncoil and release all that I have been holding tightly—all that my mind has been wrapped around for days, months or even years. Now you might understand why this blog is named The Chambered Nautilus: Deep calls unto Deep.

During this vacation planning we knew we had to drive to one of the coasts in order for me to put my feet in the water. We chose a fairly secluded and unknown (compared to her neighboring sister beaches) place along the gulf.

I am so glad we did.

So, if you drink tea (sweet or unsweetened) or Diet Coke or coffee please, by all means, fix you a tall cold glass. Maybe even a piece of cheesecake? Then sit down in a comfortable place and join me for just a little while. Let this border-line Southern woman tell you a story…or two.