The Sacred Shell
Questioning the existence of God at the ripening age of thirteen, I waded about in the shallow waters off Jekyll Island. The tide pushed and pulled at my legs at regular intervals while I conversed with the Creator of the Universe, or with myself, I wasn't sure which.
Feeling disappointment at the total absence of shells on the beach, I ceased scanning the shoreline and continued on aimlessly deep in my thoughts. Vacations with my family were always eagerly anticipated fun times. Going to the ocean for the first time was an adventure into an unknown universe. The bright sun, the warm breezes, the salty water and the sand between my toes created tingly sensations sweeping across my skin. This was an escape from the ordinary world of suburbs and school. Not only did the air smell differently, it was full of expectancy.
My brothers were playing catch on the beach and my parents were enjoying some well-deserved rest. My eyes could not take in enough of the never ending visions of waves, palm trees and sand. How immense this ocean! How many grains of sand on the beach... which brought me back to the gnawing questions at hand.
How could a loving God allow people to suffer and die such horrible deaths? Why did he create earthquakes, hurricanes, crocodiles and sharks (especially relevant at that moment)? How could a compassionate God create Hell?
My Sunday School teacher enjoyed my questions, like when I asked why he was going out to eat on Sunday, when he had just been telling us that it was wrong to work on Sunday. I had queried whether it was right, then, to make other people work on Sunday. I appreciate that he was open, caring and willing to look at himself.
With a Presbyterian minister for a father, and a mother who played piano and organ, and sang in or directed the choir in the churches they served, we spent a lot of time in church: sunday school, one or two morning worship services, sunday evening service, Bible classes on wednesday afternoons, wednesday evening lessons, Bible camps, and occasional revivals. As much as I loved and respected my parents and their dedication and integrity, at thirteen, I identified mostly with the doubting Thomas of the Bible.
So, here I was, wading in the ocean, and agonizing, What if God doesn't exist and never did? What if we just die and that's it? I couldn't bear that thought. I pleaded with the unknown from my heart, Please let me know if you really exist.
I believe I received my response in the next moment. I stubbed my toe on something hard in the sand. Instinctively, I reached down through the gray, opaque water to pick up what my foot had hurt itself on. Wow! My hand retrieved an exquisite large conch shell, blue and weathered on the outside with some blackened barnacles, and shiny and orange and cream on the inside... the most beautiful shell I had ever seen. And so I felt a knowing inside...
My beautiful sacred shell has moved around quite a bit with me since we found each other. Once, when visiting the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C., I saw some shells that looked kind of like my shell. They were millions of years old. I feel chills move up my spine now as I hold it in my hands. It looks the same as it did the day I found it many years ago, perhaps a mere fraction of its existence on this planet we both call home.