We routinely walk the beach and passively look for seashells and driftwood as we stroll. Over the years, we have amassed a nice collection of seashells. These beautiful products of the ocean are on display in our home or in our grandchildrens’ rooms.
As time has passed, we have become quite selective as to the type of seashell we collect. Many times we leave the beach empty-handed, confident of two things: 1) we will return to the beach, and 2) we will find the perfect specimen of seashell to add to our collection the next time we visit.
One trip to the beach became a particular poignant one, but not for the spectacular display of shells or the marvelous weather we experienced. In fact, the weather was dreadful.
Once we were settled into the condo, we attempted a walk on the beach, only to be forced inside by a storm quickly approaching from the Gulf.
As we made our way up the board walk, I noticed a young woman carrying an array of broken shells in her hand. The shells were precariously balanced in her hand, and one small stumble might have sent the entire lot of them tumbling out of her hands.
As the group of beach-goers escaping the rain made its way to the elevator, my eyes met this young woman’s, and I gave her my best “I am so sorry for your loss” smile. This is the one you give people who might ask you for parking meter change when you have none. Clearly, there is nothing you can do to help the person seeking change, but you want to show empathy by offering a sympathetic smile that says, “I feel your pain.” My smile was meant to represent my sorrow for mother nature’s lack of cooperation in her quest for more shells worthy of taking home.
You see, I had assumed that this woman had done her best to comb the beach for shells, and for all her hard work, she was left with a mess of shells that were not worthy of even a child’s “glue the shell on a picture frame and call it a Mother’s Day gift” project.
As we entered the elevator, I continued with my sympathetic posturing and said, “Awe, I see you have been gathering seashells (insert strong sympathetic tone to this statement). Her reply, “Yes! Aren’t they beautiful!”
Wait. What?
Were we looking at the same handful of seashells? It was clear by the look on her face that I had completely misread the situation, and here was a woman extremely proud of her precious cargo.
I was more than a little embarrassed and realized that I was about to have a paradigm shift.
She continued, “This is the first time I have been to the ocean, and I’m not sure I will ever be able to return. I wanted to make sure I brought enough shells home for my whole family. They are going to love these! I hope I got enough!”
And students, Humbled 101 class is now dismissed.
Two words came to my head that summed up my character: Arrogance and Entitlement. Arrogance because the shells that I had discarded as unworthy were being cherished by this humble and grateful woman. Entitled because I was so confident that circumstances would always allow me to return to the ocean to search for shells more worthy of my collection.
As the woman exited the elevator, I offered an enthusiastic assurance that her shells were beautiful, and I was sure her family would be ecstatic to receive them.
Every time I visit the ocean and pause along the shore I gaze at all the beautiful shells, some intact and some broken, and I think of that woman and the lesson her gratitude taught me that day. Even though I have always felt a tug to care for the earth and all its inhabitants, I am grateful to the woman with broken sea shells for reminding me that all of God’s creation is worthy of our awe and wonder.
To honor the gift of gratitude I was given that day, each time I enter my meditation time while at the ocean, I sing a few lines from a hymn I remember from my childhood.
For the Beauty of the Earth
For the Glory of the Skies
For the Love which from our Birth
Over and around us Lies,
Lord of all to thee we Raise,
This our Hymn of Grateful Praise.
With gratitude,
Karla
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