I walk along the foaming shore of the ocean. The salty water gently taps my feet like a child with a secret; a cold touch before it slides back down the sand joining the pattern of the curling waves. The setting sun dangles over the brim of the water, tantalizing its audience like a musician before an encore. The breeze sweeps through my hair, whispering over my neck with a cool yet warm touch, like a chill during the first moments of a hot shower.
Creation. I breathe it in. A masterpiece crashing, beaming and whistling to its maker. Could it be? The sea leaps and rolls in excitement to the one who swept a hand and formed the ripples that move and glisten under the sun. With each fierce rush to the shore, it sings praise to the king of the earth. The falling sun, bursting with color that changes in the blink of an eye to an even more beautiful tone. Its melting pinks, oranges and purples dripping across the sky, filling every corner with reverence. A display so majestic back to the one who made it all. The flirtatious breeze, lending a whisk of it’s coolness and then balling it back into a fist before beginning again. With each gust, it hums a tune of love for the one who exhaled it into existence.
I feel the sand shift and slide beneath my feet, each grain rubbing into my soles, reminding me of the intricacy in which they were made. The hairs of my head. The warm tears that slip from the creases of my eyes. The desires that swim in the deepest edges of my heart. The sighs that almost silently exit my lips. None hidden; all known. My own being responding to the love that knitted it together.
All of creation responds to the author of it’s story. As the corners of a mouth curl up in grin to a soft tickle, the earth reflexes its answer to the call of the maker. Does the human do the same? I wonder.
Are there souls covered in hiding, bursting with giggles that grow into moans of agony, longing to be released to their creator? Do they live a life concealed, yet fully visible like a little one playing peek-a-boo behind tiny dimpled hands? Is it possible to deny a soul the freedom to worship as the blooming flowers and dancing raindrops so freely do?
“My soul thirsts for you.”
What if we were in fact stitched together with an ingredient that so naturally thirsts for Him? Does the soul require permission to sing to the king and twirl in his presence? When the ones who are tucked away and forced to stay hidden get a moment, do they escape for a quiet whisper with the creator, with tucked in legs and attentive ears like children circled around during story time?
I wonder if they quietly twist and turn in dialogue with Him as the body dreams, eyes shut, chest slowly rising and falling. Or what about when fear strikes sending hot liquid into the stomach in a moment of sheer panic. Perhaps the soul steals a second to beg for its inventor to draw near before melting back into the darkness.
The homesick souls, forever longing and waiting to be released but bound by closed eyes that refuse to see. Like a baby in a womb, shifting to the sound of the mother’s voice, does the soul squirm at the Father’s?
I feel my soul connect with its savior. I allow it to respond. I lift my eyes and grant my limbs, my breath, my voice to answer His call.
