Broken Plans

Plans broken, changed, rearranged, the year quickly became unrecognisable from the elaborate montage of expectations we’d so thoughtfully designed. That was new, hopeful, predictable, achievable, a masterpiece we’d display on our wall and speak of for years to come. This is different. Unwanted, unwelcome, unimaginable. There was no chance to dip our toes in, to get used to the brisk temperature; we were submerged before we even saw the peak of the wave. We were pushed in goggle-less, breathless, stripped of all control, left wide-eyed and grasping for any semblance of an anchor we could hold onto.

We’re back on the shore now, spinning in circles but yet somehow we’re standing still. Our eyes looking forward but unable to look ahead. Listening, watching, wondering as the waves keep coming, day after day, month after month steady then suddenly, gently then with mighty force. Bringing chaos and confusion, making us long a mere glimpse of normalcy.

We dig in the sand with our hands and our spades looking for any sign of treasure. I feel the sand slip through my fingertips leaving nothing behind, but I know it has to be there. The sharp edges of a shell scrape me, and I behold a broken and battered remnant of what was. But I can’t discard it. I hold it delicately, intrigued by the rustic beauty it exudes in whites and browns and shades of pink. Beauty not from days of sitting idle in the sunshine but from a story of labour, sacrifice and weathering. Treasure in the most unexpected form.

I won’t discard this season. Though I don’t understand it, I know it has a course it must run. For just as the tide comes in, so will it return, without asking permission of anyone. A season where we must learn to stand motionless, our hearts and minds halted in their places amidst the changes of the tide. Though the air may be salty with disappointment stinging our eyes and the sand feels too rough against our skin, we can look out and see the vastness, beholding the majesty of the One who is secure, constant and unwavering. Only then can we hear the rhythm of the waves beating on shore and learn to dance to the unfamiliar tune as eclectic and confronting as it may be.

We may come out of the year with a few extra pounds or more gray hair, with loss and aches of every kind, but I pray we also grow in compassion, generosity, patience and joy. For, friends, in the breaking and bending, the sweeping and crashing, that’s where beauty is found.