A Handful of Seashells

When I lived near the beach, the sight of those vast bodies of water meant one thing. I had reached the edge of the Earth on journeys that led to endless possibilities.

I remember the uniqueness of each seashell washed ashore. I would pick one up, feel its texture, admire the colorful patterns, and make it a keepsake. I once lived my life that way. I sought adventure at destinations that promised something new. I have always wanted to explore what the world has to offer.

I still see seashells across the globe, drawing travelers to foreign shores. A piece of creation formed in the depths of what God made possible, and in everything we find, gathered in the pursuit of purpose, we create meaning.

Describing how, why, when, and where anything becomes part of our reality, a single shell contains the building blocks of a sheltered species, or a material value strung on a cord to make a necklace or create an aquatic landscape for a fish in a tank. We all have our belongings on this planet, and some arrive by the current that carries us to adventure on.

The oceans give us oxygen that sustains the plants nurturing humankind, and the tides rise and fall with the ticking of a clock. My seashell, placed in cupped hands, is an eternal presence—a slowly decaying symbol of life itself.

If I were a seashell and washed ashore in a coastal city near you, would you cherish me, love me, or would you place me on a shelf and forget I exist?

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