Wasted Wanderlust


Young people and old people walk along the shore or sit in seats shimmied deep into the sand. They raise koozie-covered cans of Coors Light high with pride while posing for pictures. Explicit music rips out of speakers. Explicit words whip from mouths. And shots tip up.

Noise weakens the splendor of the whooshing whitecap. Filth wrecks the shimmer of the pearly white sand and aqua ocean. What’s meant to point you in wonder of the One who stirs up the sea so that its waves roar points you to scorn those who ridicule him with their abominable habits, abusing the gift of its beauty.

A wayward woman lies westward. Wretched wrongdoers with no willpower but to gulp down another stimulant share a funnel to the east.

Wanderlust brings them here only to wipe out and not remember it once they return home. They stumble in the unstable sand and slur their rotten words like a toothless heathen on a loudspeaker. They miss the awe of it all and also stunt my potential to be awed.

Remove them, and the beauty glares at me. I scoop a handful of sand, letting it fall through my fingers. Every grain, he knows. I stare at the vast and spacious waters which reach the horizon in the distance. He spread out the earth upon the waters and made the division of the sea and the sky. A far away boat bounces across while the wind wisps strands of hair into my eyes. I’m reminded of the wind and the waves that obeyed Jesus on a boat in a storm. He rules the surging sea and stills the mounting waves to a whisper when he sees fit.

Give me blinders, so I can see your splendor. Deafen my ears to what you abhor. But don’t let me be numb to the numbers of the dead here. Can’t you awaken them—wham them in the face when they wade in the rippling water? Can’t you turn their eyes upward and cause them to stand amazed? But even that can’t be enough—can it? They can’t stand and look at what you’ve created, feeling the reality of a being infinitely more powerful than they, and be saved from their wickedness. They can’t repent without knowing what to repent from, nor can they desire to be changed if they don’t see a need to be. Someone must tell them the bad news followed by the good. Shall it be me? Surely you have another one of your people among this innumerable crowd—although it’s hard to believe with the hellish people that surround me.

I get a whiff of beer. Bikinis and bare bottoms are all I see. Lost bodies waddle with no fear of a coming judgment. But one day he will hush their lips and punish the wickedness of their sins. On the beach, they skip and sing, but before a holy God, they wreak—and then they will weep.