I sat on the edge of the world last month. Right there on the edge watching as the sun drowned herself in the blackness of the Pacific Ocean.
This is humbling. To watch as sun and earth seem to meld together. You realize your smallness in the universe, let alone the world itself. Your heart’s cries seem a little quieter against the waves crashing against the carved out cliffs. The weights on your mind seem a little lighter as if the Seagulls that dance overhead are helping to carry those burdens.
I have stood at the ocean five times since everything became cataclysmic last November, and each time has been different. The first trip was a sunset walk as well, but I was still so angry that I couldn’t appreciate the vastness of the ocean and rather was just happy to be at the beach after so long away from it.
When we went to San Diego in May, so much had happened in my heart between November and then that walking overcast beaches was a renewing. New wineskin forming where the old, bruised, calloused one had been. I remember standing there holding my shoes and my camera and being in awe. Feeling the sand between my toes and the cold wind having its way with my hair. I remember forcing myself to appreciate the magnificence of the ocean and not take for granted my being there. Being there physically and emotionally and spiritually.
But when I found myself sitting on those cliffs I was moved. I was reminded of my smallness, that in the grand scheme of things my problems are minuscule. Especially to someone who can spread water across a globe and keep it in its place, while also keeping my hurts so close to His heart they are impacted by its beating.
As I looked at the waves coming in to marry the shore I kept thinking, “it goes on forever. There is no end.”
I invite you to stand there, on the edge of the world. Look across the ocean’s horizon or the summits of mountains that intertwine with the sky. Be reminded of something bigger than yourself. To feel the wind whip through your hair. To feel a little bit more free today.