S is for SAND

I have been buried several times. I pleaded that I wasn't dead but nobody listened. Instead, the plastic shovels just kept digging deeper and deeper into the ground, excavating a huge mound of sand that lay close by to where I was sitting, waiting patiently. Even though I had every chance to do so, I made no attempt to escape, but, resigned to my fate, I found myself even helping to accelerate the process by scooping out the odd shovel of sand onto the heap. My captors were not entirely inconsiderate, allowing me the opportunity of one last request, which usually amounted to "Jennifer, can you not control our children?", after which I was encouraged to lie flat and motionless in the hole and accept my fate as the giggling accomplices poured the sand back from whence it came, but allowing me the privilege of being able to breathe. It's funny how cold you become under a mound of sand, even on a hot day, but dads never seem to learn for the next day the same thing happened again and I was totally helpless to avoid it.

The beach that year was packed with holiday makers and their cars for the sun shone all day, every day. We built sandcastles, dug river beds that we filled with water, carried in two tiny plastic buckets from the receding tide, buried family members, hammered wind breaks into the soft sand, had picnics, ate ice cream and just let the grains wander between our toes as we wandered the length of the strand to discover that everyone was doing roughly the same things. Everywhere, you could see children carrying plastic buckets and spades, transporting water to their creations so that the sand was wet enough to mould into any desired shape. Daddies and mummies keeping a careful eye on their young as they traversed the beach on their way to or from the water and a constant stream of cars looking for a space to erect their temporary home. During the day, an ice cream van would play its enchanting melody as it drove along the sand and then stop at regular intervals to appease the desires of its congregation. And most days, the sound of a large blue tractor could be heard as it answered the call of a stranded motorist who had either parked too far back in the soft sand or too near the advancing tide in the late afternoon.

Often, in the freshness of an early morning, we would walk along the mile or so of beach in the company of a few eager fitness enthusiasts, a stranded jellyfish or lost crab,the occasional horse that was being exercised by its owner and a gang of voracious seagulls scouring the area for the remains of anything edible. But the whole place looked different from the previous day, for the tide had come in as far as possible and had removed all the sand castles, ruts and rivers in the same manner as the old magic wipe boards, to leave everything looking new and unspoiled again, the sand smooth and the yesterday's fun now only a memory. Sometimes there was the odd remnant of the past where a well constructed defence had posed some resistance to the power of the waves beating against it but it was no longer recognizable for what it once was and the next high tide would probably wipe away any remaining traces of resistance.
I have walked on many beaches on different continents, sometimes the sand shifting easily under my feet, at other times remaining firm as I moved. Across the earth, children play the same games on it, use it to build their castles and gain the same pleasure from it. And at the end of the day, the waves take it all back out to sea.

I love sand but I wouldn't put a house on it. I'm not that stupid! That's why I totally empathise with the story Jesus told about the foolish man who built his house on the sand. I mean how silly can you get! Didn't he know what happens to sand in the rain? Had he never seen the waves destroy a sandcastle before? Did he not see the wise man constructing his mansion up on the rocks? Why did the planning authorities give him permission? Who was advising him? Or did he just not listen? I suppose it was OK for a while but he must have suspected something when the walls started to move. Anyway, for whatever reason, it was always going to end in disaster and his wise neighbour, who incidentally didn't seem to offer him any advice during the building process, stood on the rocks above and had a good chuckle to himself. He probably told all his friends about the idiot leaving nearby and they all had a good tut tut about his misfortunes. If we'd been there we'd have told the foolish man to wise up and build on some ground with a firmer foundation rather than ridicule him. At least not in the way we gossip about those who fall from grace, who have affairs, who get into debt, who steal or murder, who gamble, who have shady business deals, who don't pay their taxes, who never put their foot in church, who do something that we don't approve of. I suppose it's alright when you have a firm foundation but didn't Jesus say that everyone who heard his words and didn't put them into practice was just as foolish as the sandman.

So what is God telling me. I think He's saying 'it is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.' And I'm part of His plan to help those stuck in the sand, find a rock on which to build again and know that God's grace is greater than any wave at wiping away the past.