Treasure Hunting: Not If, but When

Melissa Darsey, lovely and profound spirit that she is, shared her recollections about this particular evening. You can visit her at Tethered: His Night Song.

Profound occurrences are often profound only to the person experiencing them. The serendipity of events does not quite impact others as it does we who are in the middle.

But I want you to see God. Watch him show up.

This story must be unfolded. Fold by fold. It is a long story. Read it in parts. Take a break or get a cup of coffee and join me for a little while.

I just want you to know my sweet God must have been chuckling as he orchestrated this one. 

 

On Melissa’s last night of vacation we discovered that one of her dreams was to walk the beach at night.

Abby and I declared we would go that night. It would be Melissa’s last adventure before going home. I was so excited for her. Years ago I walked the beach on Cape Cod at night, and it profoundly affected me. Vivid details still remain. I wanted Melissa to experience something very similar.

Little did I know.

Do we ever?

In our finite grasp of reality and space and time do we understand that the God of this universe really does hear us? He catches the sighings. He perceives the longings. He listens to the unvoiced desires—the ones we tuck away, tight back in ourselves. These are not secret to him. They are not veiled from his vision.

For years I have been tending a low burning fire for a sojourn to Ireland. There were times when the fire leaped and danced with flames high. Hot and compelling. Other times, a simple quiet fire, banked. Recently the embers burned down, ashen and powdery. The task seemed overwhelming. The finances. The time. The schedules. Slowly the fire became just a warm place in my heart. I attempted to substitute more practical things for it. Ones that would benefit far more people than just me.

Little did I know God heard, and his breath was about to blow over my dream embers.

The whole day began with a trip to the marina. We wanted to see dolphins and so we booked an afternoon outing—the marina’s advertisement gave full assurance that dolphins would be spotted.

While we waited for our departure time we visited several of the little shops along the marina’s boardwalk. We indulged in ice cream and truffles and dark chocolate covered stick pretzels (I ate the latter, not all three).
 

 

While Steve stood and watched the fishermen fillet their catch I meandered into a jewelry shop.

The small shop was filled with shelves of nautical jewelry and cases of charms and necklaces and earrings shaped like shells, fish, palm trees and ocean waves. Weaving in and out of the labyrinth I stopped at a few of the cases. Some unique piece would catch my eye.

Then I turned.

Behind me almost in the middle of the store was a rotating kiosk of Irish jewelry. Four leaf clovers, Celtic crosses, Celtic knots and pots of gold. It seemed so out of place. So random.  I spun the stand slowly. Looking and all the while pondering the question, “Why in the world was this in the middle of this store?”  

We went to wait in line to get on the boat for our date with the dolphins (another story for another post).

I forgot about the Irish jewelry.

After we docked we were all quite hungry. We were looking for something local—something with the reputation of serving really good food. We heard The Friendly Fisherman was the place to go. All twelve of us traipsed into the restaurant. If our numbers worried anyone we couldn’t tell.

Our waitress’ name was Dawn. She was from Pennsylvania: a transplant enjoying the ease of ocean front life. We could almost see her apartment complex from our table. We knew we had been given the seasoned waitress; she knew what she was doing. Feed the kids first. The food was fabulous. Other than Amy’s shrimp tacos it was the best meal I ate during the entire vacation.

Remember the random Irish jewelry back at the marina boardwalk? Here we go again.

Dawn wore a necklace. Not just any necklace. It was a large silver Irish claddagh. I know she saw me staring, so I just asked. Where did she find such a wonderful piece? She touched it, rubbing the embossed hands and crown and heart and explained that she commissioned it to be made. An original piece.

For an instant my head reeled. This absurd thought crossed my mind:  I am in The Friendly Fisherman eating clam stuffed tilapia being served by Dawn from Pennsylvania with a claddagh necklace.

The old fire stirred. The wind was blowing.

We left.

We spent the rest of the day playing and resting.

I forgot Dawn and the claddagh necklace.

Evening came. Everyone trekked back to the condo. Bedtime routines commenced.

I kissed Steve, then Melissa, Abby and I walked back down the beach.

We took pictures under the dock—leaned on the weathered wood. And the light began to fade.

 

 

We discussed which way to walk and Melissa explained she wanted to walk toward the light—in the direction of the setting sun.

Away we went. Jaunty. Happy. Carefree. Fulfilling a dream.

I kept watching Melissa’s face and praying for her. Praying God would meet her. Praying she would experience His presence in this trek in the dark with the water lapping around our feet and the sand grown cold. At first she and Abby held up their dresses, but then they let them down. Unfettered, the hems grew wet and heavy. They drug in the sand, combing it smooth as they walked.

When I walk the beach I am forever keen-eyed for shells. That night was no exception.

I saw one. Or what I thought was one. A black shadow in the sand. A large one.

Cautiously I reached down and tapped it quickly with just the tip end of my pointer finger. Just in case. Earlier in the weekend something had caught my eye in the sand and I failed to use caution. A crab bit my finger. A snap, a sting, and a narrow trickle of blood encouraged and wizened me to be careful of shadows in the sand.

This one didn’t bite or move, so I picked it up.

Oh, what a treasure. It appeared to be a black oyster shell (still not entirely sure). It was the most unique piece I found during the entire trip. I was thrilled.

We began again. Walking.

A woman passed us. Nothing odd. Except she was holding a shell almost exactly like my own. She noticed mine. There we stood, as if we were holding two pieces of the same puzzle wondering where our pieces fit.

The early part of the conversation is hazy in my mind. I think it was just courteous beach dialogue. But several sentences into the conversation my hearing heightened and honed.

Flames flickered.

I cocked my head and looked at her, and the words were out of my mouth before I realized I was thinking them.

“Would you mind if I asked where you are from? Originally?”

I wonder now what was going through Abby and Melissa’s heads, but then I was oblivious.

I took a deep breath as I saw her mouth open to answer.

“Ireland.” She answered.

I gasped. Whether out loud or not I don’t know. It was very loud in the cavernous places in my own head. And puzzle pieces began to click into place: the Irish jewelry at the marina, Dawn and her one-of-a-kind claddagh necklace.

I peered at this woman. Holding my breath. I wonder now if she thought I was crazy.

We began to talk. The lyrical cadence of her voice was soft. Her “r’s” trilled slightly.  In my peripheral vision I saw Abby looking at me.

We continued to talk. I asked questions somewhat just to hear her speak.

I told her I had dreamed for years of going to Ireland.

She gazed at me. Eye to eye.

“Then you will, Lady, you will.”

Tears, as usual, threatened to pour down my face. But I held them. There was something in her tone. Something in her gaze.

We kept talking. I asked her where she would want me to visit if I ever went. What out of the way place would she like for me to see? Again that eye to eye gaze. She held it longer this time.

“It is not if you go, but when. I want you to set a date.”

I blinked. Finally.

I explained I also loved the Vikings and wanted to visit Dublin because of their influence there. She chuckled and said she was from the area the Vikings first settled in Ireland.

She went on to tell me that tickets were not as expensive as one might imagine.

I watched her face. Tried to drink it in while standing in the fading light.

Surreal.

The real time lasted a few minutes. But in my head it was slow motion. Almost stop frame.

I stood in a dream. And in that dream I saw myself on the shore of the Gulf at night having a conversation with an Irish woman.

It welled up in me. The question. Bubbled in my mouth.

“If you don’t mind I would love to know your name.” I waited.

God must have leaned forward for this one. Leaned right forward and looked over the rim of heaven. He must have been laughing his great belly laugh of delight. Absolute delight. His divine appointments always change someone’s life.  

One of my favorite authors is Linda Windsor. She is the author of a beautiful series of books set in fifth century Ireland: The Fires of Glennmara. The female protagonist of the first book in the trilogy is one of my absolute favorites. This is quite important. Unlike me at the time, my dear Reader, you know what is coming.

The Irish woman looked at me and said, “My name is Maire.”

The character in Linda Windsor’s book is named Maire. (Pronounced: Moi-rah).

I spelled the name back to her to make sure I heard correctly.

I did, although this sweet Maire on the beach had to spell her name differently here in the States because no one could pronounce it. Often she was mistakenly called Maria or Mary.

Maire is a soft and musical name when spoken by an Irish tongue. I can still hear her voice pronouncing it for me.

Our encounter ended after that. We hugged. Clasped hands.

She turned to leave, but before she did she looked at me with that eye to eye gaze again.  

“You will go to Ireland. It is not if, but when. I want you to set a date. An actual date on the calendar.”

Maire turned and walked down the beach disappearing into the evening. I watched her walk away until the dusk became dark and she disappeared.

God set me up.

I can hear Him laughing still.

Little did I know.

My God. My God.

He knows and pays attention to every detail of our lives. He knows the longings of our heart.

The embers are hot now.

Red. Alive. Glowing.

It is not if I go to Ireland, now it is just a matter of when.

We’re working on a date.
 

 

BTW. A couple weeks after we returned from vacation all these events were but memories beginning to fade. One day I pulled into a parking spot at a local department store. I got out of my car and looked at the van parked in front of me. I noticed the license plate. I took a picture.

Are you kidding me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunting: Conversations and Sand Dollars

During this treasure hunting vacation I did a great deal of watching and observing.  I saw God move and be present in the littlest and slightest situations and places. This seeing had so very little to do with me. I am significantly blind at times, failing to see what God is doing and orchestrating.

My blindness has little to do with the ability to see or perceive. My blindness is that my vision is so limited. So narrow. So restricted. So partial. So myopic (Thanks, Madeleine L’Engle. The abstract definition of Myopia is the lack of discernment or long-range perspective in thinking or planning).

Now, I want to get something very straight here before we go on. This is important to me. There are times I fear writing about something because it will seem I am implying perfection. Fear that I am presenting only the good—quite often I have been told I see only the good, and rarely the flaws. That I see only the pretty, and never the ugly. This is untrue. I see the flaws. I see the ugly. I just pray hard to see past them. To see beyond them.

I did NOTHING to deserve the beauty, whatever form it might take, in my life.

Nothing.

Anything that is of value is from his hand. Period.

One of the most beautiful parts of my life is my husband.

Steve.

Often the greatest and most valuable treasures are closest to us and we fail to see. We overlook. We assume. We take for granted. We suffer from myopia.

But I can’t take these treasures for granted. They are too precious. They are gifts.

Steve is the quiet, tender, unassuming, gentle and steady giant in my life.

There were days on the beach when I did nothing but simply watch him.

And I fell deeply in love with him all over again.  

I observed this great big man sitting cross-legged on the sand with two little children building a sandcastle. Steve would design an elaborate castle and then laugh when the children would dump sand or pour water in the middle and erase all efforts.

I watched as he bent down to teach a little boy how to find and ride a wave in all the way to the beach.

 

During a fierce squall on the beach we all ran to shelter to avoid being pelted by the wind and the rain, but Steve went back to find Dave—to make sure he was ok.

There were other things:

His laugh.  

His hand on my back walking through a restaurant.

The brushing of our arms as we walked down the beach.

But there are two special moments I want to share with you.   

My love for the ocean and all things thereof is a little hard to miss.

In the evenings Steve and I strolled on the beach. During one of our jaunts at dusk the last of the sun’s rays beamed down on us and the water wrapped around our feet. I breathed in and my lungs stretched and my heart expanded.

Photo of Steve and Tamera courtesy of Melissa Darsey.

I looked up at him and asked, “What makes you happy like the ocean does me?”

I expected him to say the mountains. Or the castles of Germany (where he has visited). Or the bicycle paths on the beach of Santa Monica. Or building robots. But he didn’t say those things.

Without a moment’s hesitation he answered.

“Being with you. Being where you are.”

Now.

I am quite aware that many who just read that response either awwwhhhed or rolled their eyes because they thought a whole lot of cheese just got put on the plate.

Fine.

Either response is acceptable. Because the responses do not negate the sincerity.

It was the sincerity that caused my heart to constrict tight. Caused my nose to burn as I pulled in the tears that instantly pooled in my eyes. This is one of the many ways God uses Steve in my life: to render me speechless.

Speechless. I was speechless. I opened my mouth, but the words lodged in my throat somewhere down close to my heart. I couldn’t get them to exit. At first I thought this was a movie moment. Cue the music. The wind blowing. The long tender look. But we kept walking. One foot in front of the other. He squeezed my hand and I squeezed his.

The second thing I wanted to share?

When we arrived on the beach that first day we discovered that a great many people were pulling sand dollars from the silt of sand beneath the shallow waters in front of our condo.

On our way down to Florida I told Steve that some of the few things I wanted to find or buy during the trip were some very specific shells for our new bathroom and our front room.

White starfish. White clam shells. And white sand dollars.

That first day in the ocean, during the time I was struggling with my bathing suit, Steve seemed to be stationed in a small stretch. He didn’t gravitate toward me as usual. Didn’t play much, but was quite intent on a task. I got out of the water and went to the beach to sit for a while.

As I watched from the shade of my hand I realized what Steve was doing. He was searching for a sand dollar. Digging with his toes through the sand to find round disks buried deep, then diving. Head down—feet up.

He found one. A sand dollar.

 

And he brought it to me.

All that time he spent searching for a sand dollar for me (and perhaps, the challenge in finding one).

All that time spent to find something for me that was nothing more than a whim and an indulgence.

But that’s the way it is when someone loves you deeply.

They remember your little wish lists. They understand the gestures that help you feel secure. They are attune to your moods and your longings. There is an ever present intent to make you smile.

I studied that sand dollar. I looked at it. I looked at Steve.

Suddenly my vision broadened. No longer as narrow or partial.

I understood just a little more.

Father God, what makes you happy like the ocean makes me happy?

Being with you. You coming to me. This pleases me.

Here’s the sand dollar you have been looking for, Tamera. I found it for you. Brought it to you. Gave it to you. Why? Because I love you deeply. And I want you to know it. And I want you to proclaim it.

God will use whatever visual and picture he can to get our attention. To draw our eyes to him. To direct our attention to who he is.

To remind us of his promises.

To help us experience the lavishness of his grace. Of his gifts. Of his provision.

To help us understand how generous he is with it ALL.

Oh, that we would not remain myopically blind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunting: When You Can't Touch Bottom

During the first precious days of vacation I could stand on the beach and the waves would roll in gentle and easy. After the storm the surf was choppy and a little rough. Most likely it was tame to experienced swimmers, surfers and ocean dwellers, but I was more than a little daunted.

The ocean’s power was evident—pulling and pushing. Sucking under. Caution raised his hand. And I paid attention.

 

 

Steve and Dave stood out on the second sand bar playing in the waves. From the distance you could see their shoulders lift in hard laughter. They laughed as the high waves would crest and then smack against the walls of their backs.

Abby wanted to join them, so I took off with her. Little did I know.

Now, first we must establish that my 6’3” husband stood on the second sandbar and was still only a little over waist high. I’m 5’5”. He tops me by ten inches. This will come into play later.

I took this photo with a zoom from my place on the shore.

 

The day before, when the water was calm, I joined him. I didn’t have to work very hard to get there. He and I played and floated and jumped and laughed. There I stood on the sandbar and I marveled at how brave I was.  

But that bravery shouldn’t have morphed into over-confident bravado.

I began to swim toward the sandbar. I struck out thinking I would make it just fine. Hadn’t I done so yesterday?

After several minutes I realized my progression was slow. I stopped and treaded water and really took bearing of where I was relative to Steve and where our belongings were on the beach. I was way off target. Completely. And I was fighting against the current. A niggle of fear started to tickle in my throat. Just a niggle. I could still swallow past it. Heck, I was laughing.

But.

Then I realized my feet did not touch the bottom at all. When my toes finally made contact with the ocean floor then no one could see my head above water any more—not even the wisps of my hair floating. Six inches over my head might as well have been a foot.

Obviously doggy paddling and lazy backstroking were not working.

Frolicking play ceased. The rhythm of the waves that usually soothed now pounded. The endless persistence of the rising and the rolling of water no longer calmed me.

With each wave I frantically stretched out my toes trying to push off and get my head above the swell. It didn’t work. It pounded me and my head went halfway under every single time.

Of course I was laughing and inhaled two quarts of sea water. It seems sometimes there are only two things I do: laugh or cry. You take your pick. And often, for whatever reason, I choose to do the wrong one at the wrong time.

There you have it. This wasn’t a time to laugh. I kept fighting. Just as I would come up from being hit by one wave another one would roll over and push me back under. The force of that water was sobering to say the least.

Finally, I got Steve’s attention and waved at him. He waved back.

He waved back.

Are you kidding me?

He didn’t understand and wasn’t yet aware I was struggling and needed help.

I kept going under and surfacing.

Panic rose in my throat. And niggling fear swelled into a huge lump of scared.

Steve did not have his glasses on and because I was so far away he did not see my predicament. Somehow Dave realized I wasn’t just waving. He asked Steve if he thought I needed some help.

Dave’s observation caused Steve’s focus to change. He watched me and realized my struggle was a little much.

You think?

He turned and moved toward me. When I realized he was coming I stopped struggling and just treaded water. I quit trying to work against the current. And I waited in this holding pattern in the water.

With his long strides he crossed the space between us quickly. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t do the same. Then I remembered I couldn’t touch the bottom. (Ten inches can make a huge difference.)

He reached me and stretched out his hand. I stretched out mine, the distance was still too great. He kept coming forward until my hand was in his. Then he pulled me toward him, slicing through the water. He picked me up in his arms, and I wrapped myself around him.   He carried me easily to the second sand bar.

And I let him carry me. I was too tired to do otherwise. My attempts to get rid of the salt water from my eyes and nose and ears came in spurts and coughs. And I was laughing because I was no longer afraid.

But I was whipped.

There are times when we simply are not going to be able to touch bottom. Six inches will seem like two feet. The sandbar will seem a mile away. The current will be relentlessly strong. The roll of the waves will pound you. Push you under. You will swallow a gallon of salt water.  Fear will niggle. And you will panic.

I know people right now who can’t touch the bottom.

So do you.

Maybe you’re one of them.

There are swimmers in this vast ocean who are fighting the current, trying to rise up and over the crest of the endless waves. They are failing. When they inhale they can’t get enough air. They are clawing with their feet trying to find a foothold and there is not one to be found.

They are waving at us. Arms flailing to get our attention and we think they are just greeting us. And we wave back. Smiling our, the sun’s-in-our-eyes, automatic smiles.

They are growing weary from treading water. Cramps are knotting the muscles in their calves. And their arms are growing week. And they really can’t shout because every time they open their mouth wide enough it gets filled with salt water. The fear in their throat is beginning to suffocate them. And the panic swells.

Perhaps I am describing the state of your life right now. Maybe you have been treading water for a long, long time. You have shouted, but no one seems to hear you. And maybe they heard you and just simply waved back.

Whatever, you just can’t touch the bottom.

Shout one more time, I’m telling you.

Shout and ask God to send someone. Ask him to send someone to carry you to the sandbar.

Don’t fight them when they come. Don’t try to be strong and brave and say, no, surely I can do this.

No, there are times your feet are just not going to touch bottom. And you are going to need help.

 

Father, thank you for seeing our predicament and coming for us. You saw our struggle to touch bottom and our futile attempts to keep our heads above water. You saw us drowning. And you came for us. Please help us to do the same for your people. When we are on the sandbar please help us to look around and watch. Help us to notice people who are waving. Give us wisdom and insight to assess whether it is a greeting or a cry for help. Help us to pay attention. Give us the strength and power to go to them. Hold their hands. Pull them forward and swim with them or carry them to the sandbar. Amen and amen.

 

(Right now if you feel like you can't touch bottom, and you need prayer, please send me a note. Send me a private message. I will pray for you. Perhaps, I can't get to you where you are, but I can pray for God to send you someone who can.  myredcord@gmail.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunting: Dropping Anchor

Have you ever, because of your attitude or insecurities, almost ruined something? You know what I am talking about? The times when you’re just plain not comfortable in your skin for whatever reason. When it feels too tight or too loose. When the one size fits all just does not work?

If you haven’t felt this way or encountered this inner grappling then don’t bother to read any farther. But if you have…

We arrived at the beach on a Saturday afternoon. I stood on the balcony and stared out at my old friend. (I’m not sure when my love affair began with the ocean. I remember going to Myrtle Beach when I was around twelve—the summer of Jaws. Terrified I fought my step-father as he tried to drag me out into the waves. The memories of that year at the beach were not pleasant. I left with quarter size blisters on my shoulders because we didn’t use sunscreen. I believe the love affair began when we took all my girls to Destin one year in February. And I was captivated.)

I sat down on the balcony simply to have a minute of just drinking everything in—the sun’s play on the sand, and the slanted shadows of the umbrellas. I watched the skimmers swoop to fish and the gulls rise to find a current. It didn’t take long for the roll and rise of the waves to mesmerize me. I could feel my body decompress. Go slack. The ocean and its pattern and rhythm lulled me. Soothed me even from the fourth floor balcony. That day the water was cerulean blue and translucent aqua.

Calm. Placid. Languid.

But it wasn’t enough to look at it from the heights or the distance. I wanted to feel the hot sand on my feet then to be cooled by the salt water. I turned to go inside. I wanted to go play.

Then I remembered.

My attitude shifted. Sly insecurity snuck through the back door before I realized.

A bathing suit is not my friend. Need I say more?

No, most likely not. But I intend to anyway. Are you surprised?

For the next thirty minutes I fought. That’s not an exaggeration. I wrestled with my forty-eight year old body image. (She was certainly getting the best of me.) In that moment I wished I had listened and followed my good intentions of banning chocolate from my daily living.  I yanked that suit on pulling and stretching. I muttered under my breath the whole time. In the course of this thirty minutes my attitude wrapped tighter and tighter in a pitiable attempt at self-protection and defense. I want you to know that in reality my suit fit me, the problem wasn’t the suit, but my perception of the suit and the woman in it.

I haven’t been that uncomfortable in my skin in a very long time.

My daughter came into the room and witnessed my angst. She assured me all was fine. Don’t you just hate that word? Fine? But I know my daughter. She really did mean the suit and me in it was fine. Good. Efficient. Adequate. But the translator in my head read that word as there is nothing you can do to make this better, you might as well accept it and go on.  I jerked on my cover up. Pushed my feet into my sandals. Threw my bag on my shoulder and walked to the elevator.

My poor insecure attitude and perception was about to ruin my reality.

With heaviness I walked down to the beach. Across the dusty gray-brown sand. Across the packed wet gray shore and into the water.

And the water made me forget for a short time.

In the water you forget your weight in the buoyancy of the sea. For a brief space of time burdens are left behind.  For a fleeting and transitory moment you feel unfettered.  Unencumbered.

And you forget.

I laughed; I felt like shouting. Here I was again. A tiny little creature on the edge of this vast living undulating entity. And I swallowed. Humbled. Elated.

My perspective shifted.

I walked out of the water pulling and tugging on my bathing suit. The cover-up plastered against the legs I despise.

And I swallowed again.

I had a choice to make.

I could hide. I could attempt to cover all the flaws and imperfections. But that’s how my entire seven days of vacation would be spent.

Spent like sand sliding down the pinched waist of an hour glass. I didn’t have time for that.

I came to the ocean to invest.

If I spent my energies grappling and battling my perception of my appearance I would have nothing left. The fight would empty me. These battles drain me quickly. Insecurity makes you very vulnerable to the enemy.

Insecurity is like being unmoored in a stirred up ocean.

I needed an anchor.

We saw a 3,000 pound anchor propped in a corner of the connected walkway of the shops in John’s Pass. It was an enormous metal hook used to station relatively weightless boats in place on the surface of the sea. I kept looking at that anchor. It certainly didn’t look big enough to hold a boat steady in a storm. I wonder if it made a sound as it fell through the ocean waters and dropped to the ocean bed? How much sand and silt did it displace when it settled down?



John's Pass Anchor. Almost 6 feet high.

I needed to drop an anchor.

God's truth is the anchor.

Not my perception of his truth. Not my interpretation of his truth.

My value and importance and appeal are not based on how I look in a bathing suit.

The truth?

For God so loved Tamera that he gave his one and only Son that if Tamera believes in Him she shall not perish, but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son to Tamera to condemn her, but to save Tamera through him. Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in Tamera will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

That good work is not a bathing suit body. 

 

How I fit into a garment constructed to allow me in the water is a temporary thing—it will vacillate depending on a hundred little circumstances. The truth from this point is that every time I look in the mirror there will be a new wrinkle, blemish and too much fat and too little muscle. From this point on I will be fighting a battle against gravity. And I could allow this to shake me. To unnerve me. To discourage me. 

 

But I remembered God's truth: outwardly I am wasting away, yet inwardly I am being renewed day by day.  

This truth is the eternal anchor.   

God is doing an eternal work in me. He is doing an eternal work in you. What God begins he finishes.

That’s the anchor.

Dropping the anchor did not change how I fit into my suit (I hoped, but it didn’t). It did, however, change my attitude and perspective. During the rest of the trip there were no bathing suit battles. No muttering, frustrating rants.

Thank God, I say, for my sake and for the ones with me on the trip. 

But listen, dear friends, we don’t have to be unmoored.

When life and the enemy comes against us with lies about our security and worth we need to remember to drop the weight of truth into the situation. Allow the weight and reality of that anchor to drop down through the troubled waters of your spirit. Allow it to displace silt and sand. Then the storm and the ocean can thunder and roil.

As I came out of the water that day I dropped the anchor.

Drop your anchor.

Right now decide.

Let God's truth be the anchor that moors you in a violent sea.

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Treasure Hunting: Wearing Work Boots

Isn’t it interesting how quickly vacation becomes a distant memory? A surreal kind of time and space that you know happened—you have proof—but you are no longer abiding there. I looked in the mirror this morning and my sun-kissed skin is fading. Fast. I no longer look like I just stepped in off the beach. I no longer can catch a whiff of the brine of the ocean, and I vaguely remember the raucous call of the gulls.

Perhaps that is why I write about our times away. Maybe this is why I am compelled to record the events, thoughts and feelings—so I don’t forget. In order to thwart spiritual amnesia.

Treasure hunting at the beach is a hit or miss kind of endeavor. You can walk for a mile down the shoreline with nothing but seaweed tangling in your feet and broken shells littering the hard packed sand. Sometimes a lone feather will lay in the grit, light and airy—but only one. I’m not sure I understand this since there are a hundred birds flying a path across that stretch.

Yes, vacation can become a surreal memory, but what I loved and enjoyed and appreciated most about this year’s vacation were the people we spent our days with—eight were Scalfs.

Our friends and our pastors.

 

Dave and Rachael (his youngest child)



Amy capturing Wyatt's attempts to master the waves.

We joined Scalf family on the sandy shores just south of Clearwater. They went ahead of us and were entrenched in the beach life for a week before we got there. We walked through the doors on a Saturday afternoon and we could sense the ease of the loosened schedule of life at the beach.

We were about to live six days with each other—in the midst of sticky sand and salty water. In the middle of the chaos that twelve people doing life together brings.

I was nervous, but I should have known better.

If ever a couple exudes the concept of Love Does these two do.  I have learned more about practical and applicable faith from Dave and Amy than anyone else. The concept of faith having feet fleshes out in these two people. Their faith wears flip-flops and Crocs.  

Dave and Amy constantly encourage people to love. No, really love. Not just to say the words or mouth the sentiment. The love they preach and teach and attempt to live has dirt under its fingernails because it has been in the nitty-gritty part of life. It has pitched its tent where things are ugly and untidy and messy. It shows up when we are dirty and tired and worn out.

The love Dave and Amy teach loves even when pretty is not a description that can be applied.

Dave and Amy have six children. And I love them all. In each one of them glimpses of their parents break through like pin-lights. Little things. Small details. During the week with them I understood even more about love being messy. Loving when things are broken. Loving when things aren’t perfect. Loving when life is interesting and anything but.

While we were driving home from vacation Dave and Amy were a few hours behind us, but Dave kept giving updates on Facebook. Most of the time I cracked up—laughing so hard I thought I might pee my pants. Dave and Amy seem to have this gift of holding life and all of its curve balls and events lightly and loosely. There’s a flexibility in them that has been stretched by sheer grace. By unlimited mercy. And they would tell you they have seen plenty of both—they would tell you they live and thrive on the mercy and grace of God. They live from a unique vantage point of grace.

But here’s what they wouldn’t tell you.

They wouldn’t tell you about the grace they extend. The generosity they shower on people is just daily protocol for them.  Steve and I have been recipients of their generosity too many times to count. Often in the midst of their own pain and their own struggles they have reached out to us. Helped us wade through the muck and the mire.

During vacation this generosity magnified. During our six days with them we loved them more. How often can you spend six days in tight quarters with twelve people and come away loving them more?

We are at different stages in our lives. We have different giftings. We approach life from different angles.

Yet there is this familiarity. This kinship.

Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Jesus said these words. Stated these facts—pure and simple. What you hold most dear, most precious and prized, that’s where the affections and attentions of your heart will reside.

Dave and Amy are treasures. Is that cheesy? Then so be it. The cheese doesn’t negate the truth of the assessment.

My faith wears work boots now partly because of Dave’s teaching and Amy’s example. Our lives are a good bit richer because of the investment these two people pour into my husband, my children and me.

I didn’t have to go to the beach to find these treasures. Didn’t have to scour for them. Or sift through the sand or fight the tide. They are part of my everyday messy life.

Thank God.

Dave and Amy Scalf--Treasures. Period.

 

Side note: Find David Scalf on Facebook. Right now he is in the middle of a 40 Day Amen Challenge: Finding and counting reasons every day to say Amen!

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunting: I Will Teach You When You’re Ready

I really don’t like to drive, only short distances in the daytime with no rain. At some point the fourteen hour drive to Florida would negate all three of those specific details. Thus I asked to drive for the first leg in our trip down to the Sunshine State. We left at 4 pm on a Friday afternoon. My husband is the mad scientist presenter at our local library this summer, and that particular day he shot off 2-liter bottle rockets. We were almost loaded and ready to go when he got home.

I drove from Winchester to Chattanooga without stopping. I was shocked.  Actually I was as pleased as punch. Giddy at my own little petty accomplishment.

During that first leg of the journey everyone in the car was especially quiet. Settling in for the long haul, hoping we would get further south than anticipated. We were adjusting to the tight space of the car, deciding how to bend and contort our bodies around book bags and coolers, tablets and I-Pads.

About an hour into the drive my mind had still not settled down—frothing and foaming like the oceans waves we would soon see.

There was this endless litany going on in my head (does that surprise anyone?).

I was praying. Which, of course, is a good thing.

But there was a franticness, a hurried frenzy and a stretch of desperation in the internal monologue. Yes, it was a monologue. I was doing ALL the talking. I’m quite sure God opened his mouth several times to get a word in edge-wise and there was just no room for his words to be inserted.

Oh, the prayers seemed right. They seemed like things I should ask for and seek. I asked for revelation and insight during this trip. I asked to be able to see him, to gain new understanding. My mind was in a whirl. I was looking for him in every bend of rock along the road, every license plate that sped by me. And I kept pleading. I kept saying I didn’t want the trip wasted. Didn’t want to squander a great opportunity to see God at work. Didn’t want to miss anything.  

For miles and miles this continued. Unbeknownst to the others in the car. As each mile and town sped by it seemed my lust for a word from God increased.

I remember looking over at this wall of rock somewhere before Jellico Mountain. And I thought: how do I see God in this?

I must have taken an internal breath; I must have held my exhale for a second longer which created a small space.

In that small space before my tongue began to click again the Spirit spoke to me. Sterner and firmer than in a long while. The authority in that speaking shut down the inner monologue to silence. My words dissipated. Foam and froth died away.

Settle down, Tamera. Quit trying so hard. I’ll teach you when you’re ready.

The Spirit reprimanded me as if I were an over-eager child bent on getting to the playground slide first.

Chastened I almost gasped out loud.

I can’t even begin to explain the release His reprimand afforded me. I was unaware of how desperation had been coiled around my frame; it constricted me so tightly. I was so afraid and so concerned I was going to miss something. I wanted this to be a trip of revelation and of hearing from God.

I thought I would discover a burning bush on the side of the road growing and protruding from the rock face—flames arching and bending toward the grayed asphalt.

But if so, how could I stop and remove my sandals?

Most often holy ground does not come speeding down the highway.

It did, however, that day. God spoke to me in my little black car and released me from my own expectations. He released me from my self-imposed requirements. In the middle of my angst his stern reprimand was a treasure.

I couldn’t get my shoes off fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunting: There Is Such a Thing as a Pen

The ocean is a place of sanctuary for me. The power and the consistency. The scent and the sound. The rolling and falling of the waves. The ever changing moods and yet a character so utterly the same.

It is an oasis in the horizon beckoning quietly. I can hear it just on the periphery of my auditory perception even when I am not there. Last year I chronicled our vacation days in a series called An Ocean of Stories. We returned to within a mile and a half of where we were last year. There was no question I would chronicle this journey too—not if but how.

So, Friends, slip your feet in your flip-flops. Pull out your sunglasses. Get comfortable in your skin. Come walk the shore with me. You’ll need sunscreen and a bottle of water. I’d love to have your company. Bring your friends. For as long as it lasts. 

This past winter was hard.

It was a difficult season for me. The length. The cold. The dark. The gloom. My sanctuary is the coldest room in the house, so I gravitated to another room. The new room seemed too tight, too small. I lost my sacred sense of place.

I stopped journaling. I wrote, but there wasn’t nearly as much private dialogue. My journal lay forgotten. My pen lay unused. The longer the winter tarried the harder it was for me to focus. The beginning of May rolled in before I really felt winter was finished. It was the middle of May before I was convinced that its gnarled fingers had finally released us.

There were days I dreamed about the ocean and the light. And the space.

It didn’t help that summer started late for us here in the little white house. My husband, because of the missed days of school due to snow and water main breaks, did not get finished with school until June 11^th.

My tomatoes started very late. I planted my begonias in my front flower beds far later than usual, and I didn’t get to buy my hanging porch ferns because the area stores sold out. I waited too long. Summer seemed like a slow guest coming.

Needless to say, I anticipated our upcoming vacation. Our seven days at the beach.

In some ways I felt like I was holding my breath.

Then suddenly I was packing.

I bought a new carrying case for my computer. One of the new-fangled form fitting cases, and I began unplugging my computer and getting it ready, pleased as punch that I was so up to date.

Little did I know.

My daughter, the youngest, looked at me and asked an odd question.

“Why are you taking your computer to the beach, Mom?”  Incredulity laced her voice. I stopped. The comment took me off guard. I attempted to answer, but somehow the words jumbled in my head. I stumbled over them.  

“Well, I may want to write while I’m there.” I stuttered. Suddenly I was uncomfortable. The explanation seemed wrong, and felt far more like an excuse. Like a justification.

Abby looked at me with this odd expression. And she opened her mouth and the words she spoke were unexpected.

“There is such a thing as a pen.”

In my already uncomfortable state those words rubbed me wrong.

I walked out of the room.  

But the words wouldn’t go away.

I slid the computer into its new protective finery.

But my daughter's words bobbled in my head.

With Abby’s remark came a faint epiphany. A whisper. She was simply a messenger.

Ouch.

I went in search for my journal.

And my pen.

They were exactly where I left them: in the back room which used to be my sanctuary. My closet. My out-of-the-hub room. My Jesus mountain prayer place.

I opened my black, narrow-lined journal. I turned the pages to the last filled one—about halfway through the journal and dated over a year ago. I’m not completely sure of what caused the cessation of my journaling. There wasn’t a dwindling down—no skipping days. No sporadic entries. The writing just stopped. Period.

I packed the journal in my front seat bag.

I drove the first four hours of our trip. Then I crawled into the back seat and pulled out the journal.

The pen began to move across the page. My handwriting was rusty, but muscle memory is an amazing thing.  The words were shaky and jerky from the tumult of the car rolling over the interstate.

My journal page.

I had forgotten the feel of the pen on the page. Forgotten the indentations caused by the black ink pressed into the paper by the pressure of my hand and the rolling ball of my pen. I had forgotten what the words looked like sitting on the straight gray lines. Misspelled words and typos remained; there was no auto correct. The letters were not homogenized or uniform.

I kept writing.

Furiously.

Through Abby’s words the Holy Spirit beckoned me to return.

To return to the sacred place. To the Jesus mountain. To the closet. To the out-of-the-hub space.

Back to my place of retreat.

For me typing words on a screen document does not feel the same as a pen scratching on the journal page. In some ways I am sure this is akin to my aversion of tablets and Nooks and Kindles.

But, for whatever reason, the Spirit had sent a message.

Pick up your pen. Open up your journal.

And write.

As I leafed through my journal I realized what a treasure I held in my hands. NOT because of my writing or thoughts or ideas.

No, my journals are treasures because they chronicle and record the Father’s direct involvement in my life. They are black ink accounts of answered prayer. The handwritten scrawl of worship. My journals are narratives of seeking and finding. Of being hungry and satisfied. Of confusion and clarity. Of ebb and flow. Of the rise and fall of seasons. Of epiphanies and revelations.

They are the rough draft of my story.

In the writing I began to recover from the fallout and debris of the winter. My interior space opened up a fraction.

The purpose of this sojourn to the sea?

A treasure hunt to recover and discover.

A journey of reclamation.