MISSED MIRACLE

I used to “winter” in Rehoboth Beach, DE, four blocks away from the ocean.  I would be there from October through April and loved the live of a beach hermit that I was able to live for many years.  The best part of my time there was a mourning ritual I made for myself.  Every morning I would walk down the street, stop in at the local bakery, get a cup of coffee, and go sit on the board walk to watch the sun rise.  It was dark as I took my seat on the bench and waited for the show to begin.  One by one the seagulls used to arrive and sit on the shoreline, as if they too knew the miracle that was about to happen. 

The dawn would bring a muted light as the night clouds began to move out, testimony that light does overcome darkness.  The faithful few began to show up, those local folks who came morning after morning.  We nodded to one another but no one spoke.  We observed the sacredness of the moment.  It would get brighter and the sky would become more colorful, with various shades of red and golden yellows, revealing the line in the horizon that distinguished the sea and the sky.  Then the moment came and people stopped and simply looked out to see the tip of red arise, as if it was ascending from the water itself.  The tip grew and within minutes the round red sun was fully exposed and kept rising higher into the sky, bring forth the new day.

The sun rise was always the same, yet always different. It was a stunning event that in my mind, heart, and soul was truly a miracle.  The faithful few began to leave the holy ground they had been standing on.  We nodded to each other, this time with a smile and a simple “Good Morning” shared with one another.  I rose from my bench and walked home to get about my day.

I used to visit the beach during the summers.  But it was very different than my winter beach experience.  People poured down to the shore, blowing in like a hurricane, filling the place with noise and activity.  They were getting away from the madhouse of the busy lives they were living elsewhere, but from where I sat they were merely bringing it down to a different place and renaming it vacation.

I still did my morning ritual but now it was no longer me and a faithful few locals.  In the early morning there were many invaders of the dawn’s solitude and quiet.  There were people jogging with their ears plugged to the music machine on their waist, missing the morning hellos from the seagulls flying in one by one to the shore line.  There were people walking and talking about their business and their lives that they had come here to get away from for awhile.  They would continue their running with their eyes focused ahead to the next step, and go on talking to one another, totally unaware of the changes of color that were happening in the sky, the sea gulls preparing themselves for the coming moment, or the tip of red showing on the horizon, the round red sun coming out of the water and rising, bringing forth a new day.  They missed the miracle, the faithfulness of the moment, and thoughtlessly trampled on holy ground.

Fortunately the faithful few were there; the year round locals and winter beach friends such as me.  They would turn and move from where they were standing and watching the daily miracle.  As they passed by they would smile a “Good Morning” smile, but shaking their heads, simply saying, “Tourist!”  I arose from my bench and went home to get about my day, my heart and mind looking forward to winter.