We went to Gulf Shores this weekend, and it was so wonderful just to be unplugged. Saturday morning we watched a beautiful sunrise from the balcony of the condo before heading down to the sand. Combing the beach all day for shells, searching for the perfect keepsakes to remind us of our trip, I was reminded how I used to sit in our driveway as a girl, scanning the space for pretty rocks to add to my big basket. Sometimes a smooth one would catch my attention, while other times I would find one with a unique stripe or unusual colors. They were each special to me.
As we searched for shells Saturday, I kept hearing others say, “Oh look!…it is almost a perfect one, but not quite--it’s broken.” And I would catch myself being drawn to a shell halfway buried in the sand, something that at first glance appeared to be quite wonderful. When I would pick it up, however, I would find that it was broken on the underside…not complete. Instead of being disappointed, I still wanted wanted that shell. So I would add it to my bag and resume my search.
I continued to hear remarks of shells that weren’t perfect, not whole, or broken as their examiners would discard them in the sand, and I thought: But I like them broken. When they’re cracked, you can see the beautiful, smooth, intricate interiors that can’t be seen from the outside.
Isn't it great that God picks us up and still wants us even though we’re broken and incomplete. Sometimes the most beautiful people--and the most useful--are those who have been broken, brushed off, and rescued. My beautifully broken shells are a reminder that God can make all things new.
As we searched for shells Saturday, I kept hearing others say, “Oh look!…it is almost a perfect one, but not quite--it’s broken.” And I would catch myself being drawn to a shell halfway buried in the sand, something that at first glance appeared to be quite wonderful. When I would pick it up, however, I would find that it was broken on the underside…not complete. Instead of being disappointed, I still wanted wanted that shell. So I would add it to my bag and resume my search.
I continued to hear remarks of shells that weren’t perfect, not whole, or broken as their examiners would discard them in the sand, and I thought: But I like them broken. When they’re cracked, you can see the beautiful, smooth, intricate interiors that can’t be seen from the outside.
Isn't it great that God picks us up and still wants us even though we’re broken and incomplete. Sometimes the most beautiful people--and the most useful--are those who have been broken, brushed off, and rescued. My beautifully broken shells are a reminder that God can make all things new.
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