The rock is a ghost in the mist. I have captured its form countless times with a camera and many more with my mind’s eye. I know it is there – strong, rugged, unmoved by the pounding surf. 

Yet, I cannot see it fully on this foggy morning. The morning we must leave this place and go back to our lives. In reality, though, our lives followed us here, intruding on what was supposed to be a relaxing beach getaway. It arrived by text and phone, urgent family matters that had to be attended to.

Still grace was here, too.

It came on the spindly legs of shorebirds, in the crash of waves you could hear even when you couldn’t see. It rained down with flashes of lightning. It came in orange mounds of pumpkins and fat succulents. It was seashells on wet sand.

Grace was in a changed routine that made space for books and puzzles and board games.  It arrived with friends and time spent over a delicious meal. In bowls of warm chowder.  

Grace was there like the rock. Maybe it was veiled by circumstances and the  crisis or frustration of the moment. But grace was there, nonetheless: steady, certain, unmoving. Waiting for me to see it. 

I know the rock is there. I would never doubt it, even if the fog never lifted. Why can’t I be as confident of the daily portions of grace and mercy that the creator of that rock provides? 

“For now we see in a mirror dimly . . .” 1 Corinthians 13:12

Salt water is supposed to be good for soothing wounds. Is that why the ocean is a balm for my wounded spirit? Is there a way to take it home with me?