dude, where's my beach? (Or, The apparently seasonal phenomena of very low tides)

Apparently, the when the tide goes out at Spanish Banks, it goes way out. On previous beach visits, I was impressed with how far from shore people would be while still only being knee or waist deep in the water. But apparently, the extensive shallows which hedge the deep channel plied by barges withdraw completely at low tide. The soft mud bottom they expose is punctuated by little apart from swamped wisps of seaweed and various buoys on limp lengths of chain. It was a fairly long walk out to the receded shoreline —and quite wild to walk so far out into what is normally the waterway.

A further curious reality: as I sat talking with friends on the beach for a few hours, the tide sneaked  back in gradually and I didn't notice until it was back where it belongs... but then as I was watching I saw something moving and paused mid-sentence to ask someone to verify what I thought I saw, and indeed: it was a seal. Okay, so first, there was a seal hanging out in water that wasn't there a couple hours prior, and second, the seal was in maximum waist deep water. This was all very surprising to me, and slightly unnerving. As if the whole low tide thing wasn't interesting enough. Apparently, summer has all kinds of things still up its sleeve. (I know summer shouldn't wear sleeves, but this is Vancouver.)

barefoot and blessed

Vancouver is getting warm enough for me to relax a little. The sun dawns bright and early—like 5am early— and doesn't set until late—like after 9pm late. I bloom in sunlight, and ideally, plenty of it... so this schedule is ideal. The days are becoming reasonably warm, enough to for barefoot beach walks and late afternoon basking... I'm so grateful for the change of season. 

Yesterday, after my summer course classes and my shift at work, I stopped by home to grab the cupcakes I'd baked and jug of sweet tea I'd brewed...and went down to the beach to meet some classmates that go to the church I've begun attending. It has been good starting to get to know this genuine and warm little group...feeling increasingly embraced in that context has done as much to ease my heart as the sunlit and warm beach has done to ease my Vancouver experience. It was such a beautiful night: warm and calm, not a breath of wind. We all positively reveled. We were marveling at the sunset, strolling the waters edge, immersed in conversations, aglow, awash, sitting in the sand until well after 9pm when the sunset began to cool to hazy fading blues. It was, as Lauren said, "a memory making sort of afternoon." I was barefoot and blessed, content in the moment and its company—sensing at last that there was more on the horizon than the sunset—there was hope. 

to outweigh all worlds

O Lord God, 

grant us always, 

whatever the world may say, 

to content ourselves with what You say,

and to care only for Your approval, 

which will outweigh all worlds;

for Jesus Christ's sake. 

Amen.

—a prayer by Charles Gordon (1833–1885)

glimpse of the Regent community

Just a quick glimpse of a cross section of the Regent College Community—its not everyone that comes and goes, but its a pretty good handful of the folks I see day to day.

spring steadying toward summer at last

Being still in a garden—under an arbor awash in sun

Birdsong punctuating the quiet

gnats drifting in the glare all fairydust like

bees brusquely rushing about their bee-ish business

one buzzing soul still— silhouetted perfectly

seen at rest through a sunlit leaf

The vines hang suspended in midair 

like arms reaching out to a beloved 

springtime sun after a long winter's separation

A deep but light intermittent droning 

rhythm of wings beating faster than hearing

into sight: a hummingbird

dips, weaves, hovers

Chirps (they chirp?) 

Fearless does not flee but bobs 

dips, and toward wondering human face weaves

humming briskly face to face

at less than arms length

Speaks—a monosyllabic word

repeats, looks back, repeats

is gone

Like these mornings 
too quickly

blue springtime eve

Its spring, but still rarely warm. The sunset colors reflect as much. Still lovely. But I hope to not be too cold to enjoy it for more than a few moments one of these increasingly long evenings.

glory in the garden

“Earth's crammed with heaven, 

And every common bush afire with God, 

But only he who sees takes off his shoes;

The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.”
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

This month as I have been reading the Old Testament (literally, the whole thing—in preparation for a summer course) I've had the garden on my mind. Different interpretations of Eden and everything it means for life, living, relationships, and godliness. What was it like to walk with God in the garden? What does that even look like? For all the other answers that might be given—which might (often rightly) point to the discontinuity of our experience with Eden—as I walk around the block, deep in Vancouver's verdant spring, I think part of the answer is that it actually looks very much like this. 

God has restored us to relationship with himself. God's grace in Jesus Christ opens intimate fellowship with the Creator, the same God of the garden. The glory of God resides with us, in us, earthen vessels. Here I am, walking on an ordinary street, speaking with the Almighty God, seeing Creation roaring his glory with its profoundly deafening silence—glimpsing something wild, abundant, potent, fragrant...that yet has space for me, my voice, for participation, for wonder, for exploration. The presence of God is near to me, close, present, lying in wait right in the neighbor's garden. Bursting into bloom in my own spirit. Laying carpets of petals beneath my faltering feet. Of course the Fall—and we ourselves, complicit with it— has torn up the world. Of course its not all budding flowers, dewdrops,  and honeysuckle in the breeze. I don't mean to infer otherwise, or fail to take seriously the broken and burdening state of our fractured world. But right in the midst of that brokenness, God is present. The speechless voice of simply one block's worth of domestic gardens passionately and persuasively declares a generous God of grace, beauty, and flourishing. How much more the vast beauties of God set upon His world, the works of his hands? Can it be interpreted in other ways? Definitely, yes. But can we who know him fail to hear the echoes of a good Creation still calling out his majesty in spite of evil in the world?

Just a reminder that right where we are today, in the most ordinary of days—perhaps even in the most broken of days— the fellowship of God is open to us. May we have ears to hear and eyes to see: to behold the glory of God in lesser gardens.