When I was growing up in the San Francisco area, my family often spent weekends and vacations at the beach. Now I live on the opposite coast, but my love for the beauty of the beach has moved across the country with me. One of my favorite activities is to take a long walk along the sand at sunrise or sunset. As I go, I like to find nature's jewels—shells, sea glass, and the small sea-worn pebbles that I call smoothies.
A couple of summers ago, while my daughter and a friend were visiting our beach cottage, we'd planned to take one of these early morning treks. Although I liked the idea, I felt a gnawing reluctance about going. I'd been at the seashore for almost a month, but I hadn't been able to take my usual walks. I felt there was something physically wrong with me—something inside me that didn't belong. I suspected a tumor. My pants weren't buttoning, and the symptoms were frightening. I didn't have a medical diagnosis, because I was treating myself by the spiritual means I'd always used in the past. I was endeavoring to quietly pray, and also to be still, to avoid aggravating the condition.
But on this morning I got past the fear and went anyway, walking along praying to God for support and for the ability to be more aware of His presence than of this condition.
