It was our date—ice cream cones and searching for seashells. The sand burned our toes while the ice cream ran down our fingers. But, it was good because summer is good and somehow the things that might make us stomp our feet in frustration evaporate here.

The beach was littered with shells, all that remain of a storm that quickly blew in for a few hours and then surrendered. We found tiny little conch shells with bumpy grooves, likely spared breakage simply because of their size. We found what I think may be sea sponge now hard as rock and sharp to the touch though it invites it. We found four tiny sand dollars like precious diamonds in the rough, bright white and perfectly round. But most of what we found were broken pieces. She sorted them all—jagged shaped pieces shiny and smooth on one side and rough and ridged on the other, twisted pieces we named ballerina shells, shells that look like someone cleanly cut them right in half to open them like a silk-lined jewelry box to show us something special inside.

As we scoured the sand sometimes down on our hands and knees, we talked about each shell’s story, wondering where in the world God had taken it on the journey that ended right there. We talked about how oftentimes the broken shells were even more beautiful than those who had supernaturally remained whole. Only the broken shells allowed us to see beyond the outside to their hearts, hearts often layered with color like a cliche sunset, hearts with rings marking tumbles in the surf like the rings mark the seasons of a tree.

We are no different really—broken pieces often jagged and rough, our hearts laid bare by the power of the waves that move us from one point to the next. Yet, there in our brokenness, we are lovely because of the One who holds us in His hand, gently moving His fingers over the rough places, making them divinely smooth.

She brought the shells home, a big bag of mostly broken pieces that people had passed by or stepped on. We’ll never know their story, but they are treasured possessions now that have been cleaned and sorted, kept safely and protected from little fingers that may harm them.

It was seemingly nothing extraordinary really. It was common grace evidenced on an afternoon date with ice cream cones and the sea.

It’s the one week of the year that we leave everything (that is, everything that doesn’t fit in our minivan and car top carrier) and head to our own piece of paradise (that is, my parents’ condo at the beach). Days start late; how many buckets and snacks one can simultaneously carry consumes our mornings; afternoons are slow and all about wii and naps; and evenings plans are dictated by caramel popcorn and frozen yogurt by the ounce. That’s vacation…and it’s a beautiful thing when everyone just seems a little bit happier.

We were walking in the surf last night when no one but fishermen filled the beach. Lydia jumped tiny ripples as if they were tidal waves while the rest of us admired the remains of castles created hours earlier.

Ashlyn played off to the side, pushing the sand around with her bare toes.

Mommy, mommy, quick, come see something!

She was carving initials into the sand, but they were not her own in some fleeting commemoration of puppy love. They were ours.

 

Kelly + Mark.

in a heart.

surrounded by a footprint heart.

That’s what marriage looks like to her—two people who go together, who enjoy each other’s company, who laugh at each other’s jokes, and who love their kids but don’t hide the fact that they like their alone time together. She sees us like two people giddy in love, and I couldn’t be happier about it. While she’s surrounded by messages about what love is, I’m thankful to be the ones showing her the truth and I’m thankful she recognizes it as such.

One day, I know she’ll be carving her own initials in the sand. But, for now, I’m glad she’s carving ours firmly believing that even though the waves will rise and her childlike artwork wash away, what it represents will not.