And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.
– Romans 8:28 NLT
They say there’s something to be said about weathering a storm. One might come out stronger, have learned some valuable lesson or experienced a life-altering epiphany. Maybe one day I’ll be able to speak to that. To prove or disprove the cliché. For now, all I have is hope.
There’s a small spot on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts called Sea Glass Beach. It’s a sandy nook tucked between monstrous mountains that can only be reached by hiking down a short, steep hill. I remember hearing the roar of the ocean as I descended down the rocky path for the first time. The cluster of messy palm trees open, presenting a treasure-filled beach with giant waves that smack the rocks fiercely before bubbling up in a frothy white foam and slip back into the sea.
The treasure? Sea glass. Small, smooth pieces of rock that come in an assortment of colors. Different shades of green, brown, white, clear, and if I was lucky, I’d find a deep blue piece. The sea glass is soft and smooth and soothing to hold in my palm. It covers the entire beach and glistens after the ocean tiptoes over it.
There’s something about holding a pile of fresh sea glass that is mesmerizing. Perhaps it’s not the sea glass I’m mesmerized by as much as I am the creator of it. But then, I remember the creation isn’t even in its original form anymore. It didn’t start like this. It began life as something completely different.
Sea glass must endure a process of sorts in order to morph into something as beautiful as it is. You might say, it has to weather a storm. These pieces that have me captivated were once glass bottles. I can’t say for certain, but bottles that were likely used, tossed to the side, thrown into a trash pile, forgotten, deliberately thrown into the abusive ocean, labeled as not good enough, forcefully shattered for no purpose at all. At the very least, these glass bottles, or fragments of them, somehow ended up in the ocean. That is certain.
Imagine the roaring waves stomping the glass, whipping it up and tossing it around, rolling over it and beating the pieces for years. Many years, I’m told. These broken shards journey through the waves, feeling the pressure of defeat, yet the entire time, being smoothed, little by little; edge by edge. It sounds painful. It is. The memory of the original pure form, the bottle, fading. Does this make me angry? I’m not sure yet. The creator of the bottle wasn’t the one who threw it out, but he did create the sea and the waves that so harshly shaped the fragments, didn’t he?
As I run my hand over the smooth pile of green and blue pieces, it’s hard to imagine that they once had sharp, unfinished edges. There’s not a sign of that on them. I’m looking closely, and all I see is pure perfection. Not even a visible scar to tell the story. I plan to fill them into a clear decorative jar and set it out to be admired. These pieces that started off as one ordinary thing are now beautiful.
It’s the in-between with which I struggle. There’s no firm timeline that it takes for the harsh waves to completely mend the brokenness of the sharp-edged bottles. It could’ve taken five years, or it could’ve taken 50 years. Each broken piece healed at a specific speed, formed into a different shape and was lost beneath the sea along the way.
Yet, as the pieces eventually wash to the shore of Sea Glass Beach, they’re all beautiful gems. Those pieces that weathered the storm, that is.
Could it be that some of us were once broken bottles? Created as one thing with a clear, defined purpose, yet damaged and destroyed by someone else’s sin. We felt lost, broken and damaged beyond recognition. The waves and storms of the world toppled over our heads leaving us to feel as if we’d never come up for air. The sea buried us deeper into the darkness. The place where God would begin the restoration process. We can’t help but curse the waves that pummel us on every side and shake our fist at the wind that blows making it harder to reach the surface. How could a loving God allow this? All the while our edges are being refined. Smoothed. Our jagged shape is slowly being molded into something soft…yet strong.
We feel as though one more day of being beaten by the process will utterly destroy us. We’re ready for God to take us by the hand and yank us out. And then finally, we wash to shore and feel the fresh air against our faces. We look different. Somehow we’re beautiful. We still remember the old bottle, but we don’t miss it.
