A weathered cedar butt, rammed against a pile of upended logs, takes on the shape of a volcano. The shell of the structure cradles gravel and dried grasses while the jagged spears of wood surrounding the crown, point heavenward. Exposed roots squeeze their way between neighbouring logs and form a crib-like frame. I set my backpack down and fold my body into the wooden curvature. For as far as I can see, piles of seaweed, shells, feathers, wood and stones dot the sand.
The beach is strewn with broken things. Picking up a handful of sand, I retrieve a shard of pearled abalone shell and marvel at its loveliness. There is no beauty lost in its brokenness. Shells of limpets, mussels and shore crabs, barnacles and snails all dot the landscape, their death a natural expression of marine life. I let the sand drift through my fingers and bask in the music of the sea. Nearby, broken bird feathers and hunks of wood, amputated by the forces of the elements, lay side by side on this exposed portion of the graveyard of the sea.
In the storms that assault this island, huge waves hurl rocks and pebbles against the shore lines and wear away the land. Even the process is fascinating: swirling waters force air into cracks in rock surfaces and then, as the waves pull back, the squashed air explodes, eventually blasting the rocks apart
I slip a piece of satiny shell, a wedge of cedar and some polished stones into my pocket. Each piece, broken and pounded by the surf, displays a beauty brought about by the assaults of nature.
?But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.? (Job 23:10 NIV)
Lord, let trials polish, not destroy me!
