It is a rarity that I get to post directly to my blog. I am determined to become a much more "succinct" writer, as even I grow tired of rereading old posts, undoubtedly the result of pent up material! I am on the infamous beach trip with my family in North Carolina, which means that I survived the flight here, praise Jesus! I have in fact survived all fifty flights I've had the privilege of traveling on, my logic concerning fear is no logic at all.
So tonight I decided that Jake and I would go search for seashells on the shore, a favorite pastime of mine that I'd like to pass on. During almost every activity I am busy in my mind thinking of some great life metaphor that will go along with any given moment, most concerning God's love for me, and really mankind in general. I'm a thinker, not intelligent by any means, at least not by my standards with are whatever Paul's highest test score has been, but I like to ponder. Whether or not I am talented at writing, I still enjoy the art as a means to reflect, and here is my seashell spiel.
Here recently I spent an evening with an old friend whom I would say knows me well. I will add that I have changed much in the last couple of years and these alterations to mostly my morality are just now being understood by old friends and colleagues. I prayed that God would help me to be "the new creation" that His word promises, I want to be different. It seems though that as Jacob's name is still deceiver in the books, no matter how many times I am washed clean one word clings to me like a lonely sock: judgmental. I'm not sure how that ugly word always comes up. My friend repeated it to me again as she introduced me to a friend, "I already told him about you and mentioned that you were judgmental."
Thanks?
When I returned home the idea of me being this way was like a knife in my heart. I want to be different. I told my Mom about the situation and she responded, "I thought your entire demeanor was judgmental before you left."
Because I prayed for myself to be different?
"Sure, it just had a 'holier than thou' appearance to it."
So here is where the seashells come in. As much as I want to make this a lengthy memoir of my two minute escapade on the shore, I will try to make my point quickly (not exactly a strong suit of mine). It could be, I will admit, even an attempt to defend myself against this harsh judgment continuously resting on my shoulders (isn't it judgmental to call me judgmental, pot calling kettle black to all of you!). I was looking for shells to be put into a vase to be displayed in my house so I'd have a little piece of the beach trip, a touch of mommy and son teamwork, and a dash of good memories, Paul and I had our honeymoon at this beach. Of course I always imagine that I'll stumble across a perfectly formed shell-shaped diamond in the rough that will be the heart of my display. It never happens. Instead I see one completely chipped on the side, the shape of a deformed triangle which is actually no shape at all, but the thing that gets me is the brown and white striped pattern that I've never seen on a seashell before. How interesting. I drop it in the bucket. Hoping for a round shell I stumble across one with minimal imperfections. Too bad it's the size of my littlest fingernail. But I toss it in so I can have a good shell. I remember that the girls came to the beach earlier and found about five of the curly shells that wrap around and are smooth as silk to the touch. How come I never find those? I see a broken one and I pick it up. I put it back down. I turn around and pick it back up because I forgot to feel the texture, and once I do I know I have to take it home. Again and again, I can't seem to stop picking up broken shells. It's one of my greatest gifts, and certainly a quality I resent: I can find a redeeming quality in about every shell on the beach. It's a gift because I pick them up and take them home. I resent it because the darn bucket gets heavy and I realize I'm going to need a bigger vase, or maybe just two small ones.
........And yes, sometimes I can be what friends and family refer to as "picky," judgmental, but I have never passed by a broken shell without inspecting it trying to find out if there is some kind of beauty that I can pull from it, something that no one else may ever notice but I do and I want it at the forefront of my vase placed on the center of my mantle. I have expectations of what I take home with me, of anything that I make myself vulnerable to. The more broken the shell the more effort required to find the uniqueness, to find the one angle that will "fix it." If I can't, I do put it back down. I manipulate it, and if it doesn't work, I put it back down.
I think these expectations of mine get me into trouble. Who am I to hold a standard to you, or to anyone else? But I do care. And not having expectations of people, not having standards for others has turned our country upside down, made the church into one big party, and the word tolerance is the banner for most, but not me. So yes, I have moved over into full blown defense of myself. I am sure there are plenty that may write me off as someone religious, someone 'holier than thou' but I have a bucket full of broken shells that prove you wrong.
You show me a shell that's not been warped by the waters and rocks, and I'll say you can just keep it to yourself. But I'll keep the broken shells, there is no such thing as a perfect one anyway.
