please listen to End Serenading by Mineral
Once upon a time, there was a curious, energetic, daring, dreaming little boy.
Like most little boys, he loved jumping off the stairs, Flintstone vitamins, building forts in the woods, and helping his dad wash the family car on Saturday afternoons. Warm, soapy water would pool in the corner of the driveway, and he’d gently tap his toes in it. Those moments were rare, but when they came, he could feel it down in his bones—the existential relief of losing track of time and simply belonging.
Helping with the tire shine, yes. But more than that, it was the temporary, almost sacramental certainty that he belonged. There was nowhere else he needed to be. Nowhere else he had to be. Nowhere else he wanted to be. Perhaps holy is the only word that can describe moments like this.
As he grew older, however, life became more complicated. He began to realize he wasn’t becoming the kind of person others expected him to become.
His imagination was like the crabs in the grocery store tank, constantly climbing the walls.
What others called “too much,” he slowly learned to call himself. Medication. Shame. Anxiety. Tears he couldn’t explain. The suspicion eventually calcified into certainty. He wasn’t simply afraid that something was wrong within him. He believed he was wrong.
That summer, while walking the beach, a conch shell washed up on the shore. He picked it up and held it to his ear. He heard the sound of a mighty rushing wind. The soothing, calming sound inside the shell somehow drew the howl out of him.
A moment later, he turned it over.
The shell was speckled with pink, orange, and brown. He held it to his lips and prayed. It was, in many ways, the first real prayer of his life. Not because he had never prayed before. He had grown up in church. He had folded his hands, bowed his head, and repeated all the right words.
But this one came from somewhere much deeper. It rose from well beneath the surface. This wasn’t a prayer he was saying. He was becoming one. It rose from the depths where words are no longer sifted, sorted, and carefully selected, but simply spoken. Where the soul finally names the truth.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t even particularly articulate. It was simply honest. It was simply lament.
“I’m sorry. What’s wrong with me? Please help me.”
He thought about hanging onto the shell. Instead, he dropped it in the sand and walked away.
Years passed. The boy became a man. For years, he searched for healing in all the places he thought healing could be found. Some things helped. Many didn’t. So the ache remained.
Then something unexpected happened. God began speaking to him through creation. Not in spectacular ways. In ordinary ones.
A bee disappearing into a flower. Rain tapping against the window. A stack of firewood slowly disappearing. A ratty flannel shirt hanging from a neighborhood stop sign. An overcooked veggie pizza in the backyard.
It wasn’t that the ordinary world suddenly became alive. It had been alive all along. He was simply waking up to just how alive he—and all of creation—really were.
And with that awakening came new tears. Not because he was becoming more fragile. Because he was finally becoming more honest. The torrent that came with that pizza was unlike anything he had ever known. It became full-blown wailing—the kind of wailing that comes when the soul finally admits what it has carried for far too long.
As the tears came, something else came too.
Peace. Not because every question had been answered. Not because the past had been undone or rewritten. But because the truth had finally been named. And finally accepted.
Several weeks ago, he was walking on another beach and picked up another shell. It wasn’t the same shell, of course. But it reminded him of the prayer he had left behind all those years earlier. He held it to his ear. The rushing sound was still there. Only this time, there was no apology. A dull lament, yes. But there was no pleading. No bargaining. No writhing. Only a quiet certainty that seemed to rise from somewhere much deeper than the sea.
“You belong.”
Epilogue
My friends, I share this story simply to say that deep healing is often a long journey.
Were it not for the faithful love of God expressed through compassionate friends, wise counselors, patient mentors, and brothers and sisters who have walked beside me, I am certain much of the healing I’ve experienced would have been delayed by years—perhaps even until the life to come. That’s not because God couldn’t simply speak peace into my soul in an instant. And sometimes he does. But more often than not, he seems to choose the slower road. The road of patient grace. The road of faithful presence. The road of returning again and again—not only to him, but to the people through whom he so often ministers his love.
If you find yourself somewhere between the first shell and the second, don’t lose heart.
Keep praying. Keep paying attention. Keep walking with the people who love you. Healing may be slower than you hoped. But our Lord has a long history of finishing the good work he begins.
It’s an honor to serve as your Pastor.
Morning Grace,
Alex