Staying Strong in the Storms of LIfe

Looking for God in a gray, blustery day

     Yesterday was a gray day; blustery sheets of rain falling from leaden skies. I ran a few errands in town and then drove home to gather my rain gear. Driving through the downpour towards the coast, mile upon mile peeled back the layers of peace I had patch-worked over the deep frustration I had experienced several days before.

Something had happened and I had   experienced an anger that just wouldn’t go away. I had stood up for something I believed was right and had been ridiculed and intimidated in return. A pervading sense of injustice kept working its way back through my consciousness and I realized, “I need to get way.”

     The ocean for me has always been a place of healing. I have gone there often to nurture my soul and pray. It has helped me to realize Jesus often went to the water when He felt the need to recoup, or rest. On this day, I needed more than anything to be able to let go of the hurt; to let go of the anger; and find some sort of peace for the whole embarrassment of the situation.

     I drove through Astoria across the bay and into Warrenton. Here and there a few brave souls were out and about, shopping, sight-seeing and exploring. By in large, most people appeared to be tucked safely indoors somewhere, enjoying the warmth and comfort of their own homes. A few miles further and I entered the tiny town of Hammond. I love this little town, with it’s churches, a store or two and a couple of sea themed restaurants. It’s library, (worth a visit) always has a book sale going on and so often I have enjoyed stopping there, picking up a volume or two to enjoy through a quiet evening’s read.

                                                                            Today, I drove up, compelled by emotion and the need to just seek resolution from the salt-sea air. At Fort Steven’s Park, the truck and I found a perch atop an ocean over-look where I downed a tuna sandwich while listening to oddly comforting Keltic music from a coast radio station. A few more peaceful moments of watching the waves in the symphonies of movement and I girded on my rain gear. Slickered from head to knees, I stepped out into the Spring rains, the rain plopp-plopping onto my hooded head and set out through the sands down the dunes onto the shore. I knew where I was headed, but I also knew, it was quite a hike and I’d better get moving.

The tides were low and the ebb and flow of the waves kept me company as walking, walking, walking North on the beach I went. Near Peter Iredale there were a few people, bundled and scarved braving the weather to explore the shores. I kept walking. A sand dollar here and there caught my eye and I pocketed my treasures; sand dollars, shells and pretty rocks. I was and am, 64 going on 9.

       “God,” I prayed. “I’ve got to let go of this.” “I need your help.”I sang hymns loudly into the wind keeping my relentless pace. I hadn’t walked this stretch in its entirety for two years. And two years of age and lack of exercise were no small obstacle for me to face. I kept walking and praying. Fog, white, gray-tinged began to blanket the shore contributing to my sense of isolation. “I guess I might die out here.” I thought to myself. I wondered, “What if the tide sweeps my body out to sea?” I realized someone, probably the Park Rangers would find my truck, go through the process of notifying authorities and someone finally letting me family know. I realized they wouldn’t be all that sad since I had died somewhere I truly loved, doing something I always enjoyed.

     I didn’t die and an hour and then two passed. In the distance, I could see above the fog the sun-tinged cliffs of Washington State. The sun-lit trees echoing their greenness into the skies. “I’m almost there,” I thought. Through the mists I could see the darkness of the rocks of the jetty. At the jetty several pick-up trucks were parked; two fishermen, and a couple. As I reached the rocks, a fishermen’s dog, large, excited bounded across the sands to greet me; landing full force on the side of my right foot. “Ow!” I said to myself, “That really hurt.”

Limping I continued to the jetty and found a large rock upon which to sit. The occupants of the beach left one by one and I sat alone near a flock of seagulls peacefully standing in the shallows. I think they were waiting for the tide to turn because then they could swoop down and find fish, easy for the pickings.

I sat there, gazing at the waves, drinking in the freshness of the salt-sea air and continued to pray. “God,” I prayed. “I’m so tired and sick of the drama. I just want to find peace and be left alone.”

     There was no answer in the winds. There was no answer in the waves. I waited and noticed the fogs had increased their intensity and the shore blanket became and impenetrable shroud of silence. “I better go, “ I told myself. “It’s going to be dark soon and I am alone on the beach, miles from my truck.” I texted a family member to let them know. (later they would share they hadn’t gotten the text until midnight at which point they thought I might be dead or in real danger and phoned me to check on me.)

     Up, walking through the seagulls who somehow seemed to recognize they had nothing to fear from me, I sensed something or someone on the rocks behind me. A large man, hiked above the jetty on the shore trail. At this point, every scary movie I’d ever seen seem to tinge his appearance with a sense of foreboding. “Good grief, “   I thought. “I’m all alone out here and somebody could kill me and no one would ever see them.”

I walked a little faster towards the enveloping fog. Footstep, upon footstep. Amazing how tiny my stride appeared in face of the seemingly unending shore. My right foot, bruised by the big dog, ached painfully. “Well, I’ve got to keep going.” My prayers continued to be spoken out loud. There was no one here to hear me besides God.

I allowed my senses to drink in the solitude; to breathe in the freshness; to listen to the ocean’s roar. I continued to walk realizing it was past sunset, yet an eerie half-light kept the water alive; the sand a kind of luminescent reflection of the skies. Now and then a random wave would chase me away from the water as the white foamed edge would come higher up the beach.

     Ahead, still no sign of anything or anyone. An hour or so later a dark blip appeared on the shore’s horizon. “Is that someone on the beach?” I wondered. I walked and walked and the blip turned into the tiny silhouette of someone or something far down the beach. Minutes later the figure turned out to be a man running with an even larger dog, much the size of a St. Bernard. The man, wearing a jogging suit had on dark sunglasses, odd for such a gray day. I kept going, walking, walking.

The dog, unleashed, started to run towards me, but the man called it back, the dog responded and went to his master’s side. Unspeaking the man, nodded and continued to run past me on the beach.I realized, aching my feet hurt, and I was starting to be pretty tired. It had been after all four hours of walking. I continued on, trying to imagine how comfortable I would be once I entered my truck and turned on the comfort of the heater.

I continued to pray. I continued to sing. I listened for God’s voice in the sound of nature….but there was no sound but the sea, and wind and the waves.

The last glimmers of daylight found me climbing the last tall dunes to my truck. I opened the side door and unloaded by slicker, now pockets bursting with shells, and rocks and sand-dollars.

     Gearing up for the hour long drive home I realized I felt better. “No matter what happens,” I thought to myself, “God will still take care of me.”  I turned the radio on, enjoying the comforting sound of KPDQ from Portland and familiar rocking sounds of their long-time program, The Gospel Sing. Driving home through the darkness, turning the volume up I allowed the good old country gospel songs to wash over me.

,

"No matter what happens. God will still take care of me."