Sanctuary of the Shore
Three out of four people in my family LOVE the beach. They build sand castles, dive head first under the crashing waves, scope the shore for seashells and have zero qualms about finding a little grit in their picnic lunch, (or in any orifice for that matter). They don’t mind trudging through thick sand hauling coolers, chairs, and beach umbrellas while salty sea breeze whips their hair into a tangled frenzy. They don’t even mind getting pooped on by a pelican and carrying the stench of it on their shorts for the hours-long car ride home. (This actually happened to my husband and it will forever be known in our house as the “poop shorts incident.”) For three out of four of us the beach is a happy place. It’s a place to escape, to be at peace.
I was born in a beautiful beach town on the southern coastal tip of North Carolina. Photographs of me from the first two years of my life were taken predominantly on the beach. It makes for an aesthetic scrapbook, but if you’ll look closely at the grainy quality of film (circa 1982), it’s clear before I reached the age of one, I was already realizing I hate sand. It is nature’s glitter, working its way into every nook and cranny of my body, my clothing, my car, my LIFE. Sand and I will never be on good terms.
I may not care for the elements of the beach (sand, wind, seaweed… pelican poop), but I do enjoy being NEAR enough to enjoy the sound of the waves breaking along the shore and the warmth of the sun on my face. I’ll sit mesmerized as the sun drops below the horizon in sparkling, sherbert colored glory. I do love biking across gritty sidewalks, passing volleyball games and kite flyers as I cruise along a coastal path. I get unreasonably excited spotting a sea turtle or a sting ray gliding through the shallows. I’ve been known to hold a seashell up to my ear. I get a kick out of watching surfers paddle out to catch the next big wave. And should I ever find myself on death row, fish tacos from a hole-in-the-wall seaside shack will, without a doubt, be my request for my last meal. The beach may not be my first choice when it comes to summer vacation, but even for me it’s hard to leave the shore and come back to real life. The beach is a sanctuary of sorts, isn’t it? And I have to wonder if God didn’t design it to be exactly that.
Jeremiah 5:22 says, “I, the Lord, define the ocean’s sandy shorelines as an everlasting boundary that the waters cannot cross. The waves may toss and roar, but they can never pass the boundary I set.” God created the shore to be secure. Out there on the water is unpredictable, dangerous even. But the beach is a natural boundary where the chaos of the sea cannot reach.
Throughout the book of Acts during the apostle Paul’s journeys, he endured countless storms and shipwrecks (2 Corinthians 11:25), but every time the Bible says Paul escaped “safely to shore” (Acts 27:4). Paul and his crew would see the coastline a long ways off and it signaled hope. If they could just make it to the beach, they knew they’d be safe. God created the beach to be a place we could find safety from the storm.
In the books of Matthew and Mark, Jesus walked along the shore and called his disciples from their fishing boats and onto the beach, saying to them, “Come and follow me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). The beach is where Jesus found His friends. It is where He called them to leave their life on the water behind and follow Him.
When Jesus began his teaching ministry, crowds of people would stand on the shore while Jesus stepped onto a boat, unstable as it was, positioning Himself between them and the sea (Luke 5:1-3). From the boat, He would speak to the masses. The beach is where His people needed to be to clearly hear His voice.
After Jesus’ death, the book of John tells us some of the disciples went fishing, but they caught nothing. They came back to shore, discouraged and defeated. But Jesus had risen from the dead, and He was there waiting for them when they returned (John 21). He was unidentifiable to them, but He suggested they fish from the other side of the boat, and when they did, “they couldn’t haul in the net because there were so many fish in it” (v.6). This is when the disciples recognized their Lord. The beach is where Jesus met them at their lowest point. It’s where He reminded them of His power, His presence, and His provision.
The beach, it seems, was designed by our Creator to be a place where we can meet with Him, hear from Him, seek shelter in Him. No wonder it’s where we love to go to find peace for our weary souls. The shore is where we can rest in Jesus, safe from the storms of life. When the chaos is relentless, when the grief threatens to drown us, when all seems lost, we can trust the beach will appear. God will draw us into the shallow, calm waters. Like the coastline spotted from a long way off, He will show up for us in our hour of need. He is faithful, and His love for us is mightier than the raging of the seas. He’s drawn for us a boundary in which to keep us safe.
Do you know you don’t need a literal beach to experience the kind of sanctuary we see on the beaches of the Bible? Thankfully we don’t need real sand and salty wind that tangles our hair to experience the shores of His peace and safety. Anywhere you meet with God: sitting in your parked car, standing over your kitchen sink, lounging by the pool, changing dirty diapers, folding laundry, stuck in traffic… anywhere you are is where He’s drawing you to the shore to quiet your mind, quiet your heart, and hear from Him. This is your invitation to settle yourself in the sand (even if it’s metaphorical) and listen to Him. Will you follow Him today?
Wherever you are right now, I want you to close your eyes and imagine yourself on the shore, watching the waves crash on the sand. Imagine the birds flying overhead, seashells scattered at your feet, the sun shining on your face. Take a deep breath in, and slowly let it out. You are safe within the boundaries of His love.
The Sanctuary of the Shore, author unknown
The heavy world belongs upon the street,
Left far behind the line where pavements end.
The cool, forgiving sand receives my feet,
And suddenly, the broken edges mend.
The ocean breathes a slow, rhythmic sigh,
A steady pulse that anchors rushing thoughts.
Beneath the open stretch of quiet sky,
I loosen all the knots my mind has caught.
Each crashing wave demands to take the weight
Of worries that have grown too fierce to bear.
It pulls them down, erasing fear and weight,
And washes clean the heavy, crowded air.
The water reaches out to kiss the land,
A soft reminder of a constant grace.
With every footprint pressed into the sand,
I know that I have found my safest place.
1982. Young me on the beach of
Wilmington, North Carolina.
My face says it all.