The sea is a peculiar thing. The ebb and flow of it. How it brings up beauty from its depths and then batters it in the surf until all that is left are broken pieces of what once was a whole. It spits out ragged bits of shells and such, only to steal them back, toss them about, and lay them out again. A continued cycle of breaking and brokenness.

As I stand with feet planted, the foamy water comes and swirls and I sink in and lose my firm foundation and have to adjust myself. Such is life too, I suppose, with its harsh push and pull, like waves that sweep over and over, tossing and churning, brokenness tumbling over itself, sand sucking down leaving me unsteady on my feet.

Even still, in the midst of the corners and colors and edges, there are rare treasures – worn out, but fully intact as if to say, “Look at me! I survived the beating.”

And while those complete treasures usually find their way into pockets and buckets to be taken from the sea as tokens, it is the broken ones that lay unclaimed that draw my eye today. The ones with the stories of change and loss and tearing away and wonder. Pieces that once were together – split, shattered, and scattered – finding themselves spread here and there, telling their harrowing tale to this passerby in one place and that one in another. Their spread out brokenness touches many all at once.

I trace the rough edges with my finger and marvel at the colors and lines etched in. And I see that while the whole is only now a part, there is still beauty in what remains and I am astounded by grace as the water gives and takes and the sand covers my feet.