August 9

Today was a slow one. We didn't do much other than grocery shop for a few small items, and then after Adam's parents arrived, I sat around the house while everyone else paid a visit to the clubhouse pools (since as I've mentioned, I am not a water person). I got bored (and tired of listening to the incessant growl of the gardener's weedwhacker and leafblower outside), so I went down to check on them, and wound up taking the very short walk down to the ocean.

I started off by looking for shells, but found only rocks and obliterated bits and pieces of what were once probably quite fine shells. I put a few of the prettiest pieces in my pocket, took off my flip flops, put them on a big rock, and stood at the edge of where the ocean waves lapped at the sand. I stood there for quite some time, alternately looking out at the glistening water and down at the sand. I prayed that God would show me something; I was really open to whatever He might have to say, but I quietly wanted to see a cool shell. So I waited, but nothing happened. I sighed, and went to retrieve my shoes. And when I did, I looked down at saw a tiny, perfect black shell; no cracks, no imperfections. And I smiled at the sweetness of that tiny gift and was a little ashamed over how I'd almost missed it.

But it's not all about amassing perfect shells; it's about seeing the beauty in the broken pieces we encounter, too.