Sea Shells
Sea shells by the sea shore
“She sells sea shells by the sea shore” ~ A tongue twister.
I was at the beach today. It was a family picnic and my husband, his cousins, their children, their friends, their children, were all in attendance. Unlike the last one, there was less tension in the air, but that is another story. The real story is about a seashell. I picked up a seashell by the edge of the waters, i.e. ‘by the sea shore’. The picnic was actually a business meeting in disguise but I felt it would be ‘’unnatural’’ to come to the beach and not get my feet wet. Literally. So when it drew near to the time for us to leave, I took a walk to the waters. Some of my family were there picking seashells for a home project, so I joined the scavenger hunt. After picking out a few perfect looking shells, I stumbled on this large sea shell. It was white but not pure white like a few shells tend to be. It was the most scarred shell I had ever seen. It reminded me of an accident victim with scar tissue damage. It reminded me of a survivor. It reminded me of me. It reminded me of a lot of people who had gone through, and were still here to tell their story. Underneath the scars you could still see the faint outline of the linear design it originally had. It probably was not always this scarred, this damaged, this deformed. I am sure many beach-bumpkins picking shells were repelled by its appearance, probably dropping it in a hurry in favour of the more perfectly formed ones.
But I was drawn to that shell. Like me, it was a survivor. It had a testimony to share and I was willing to hear it. More importantly I was willing to re-tell it. That scarred shell was one of the sturdiest shells I had seen and I was honoured to take it home with me. It’s story?
I’m still
“She sells sea shells by the sea shore” ~ A tongue twister.
I was at the beach today. It was a family picnic and my husband, his cousins, their children, their friends, their children, were all in attendance. Unlike the last one, there was less tension in the air, but that is another story. The real story is about a seashell. I picked up a seashell by the edge of the waters, i.e. ‘by the sea shore’. The picnic was actually a business meeting in disguise but I felt it would be ‘’unnatural’’ to come to the beach and not get my feet wet. Literally. So when it drew near to the time for us to leave, I took a walk to the waters. Some of my family were there picking seashells for a home project, so I joined the scavenger hunt. After picking out a few perfect looking shells, I stumbled on this large sea shell. It was white but not pure white like a few shells tend to be. It was the most scarred shell I had ever seen. It reminded me of an accident victim with scar tissue damage. It reminded me of a survivor. It reminded me of me. It reminded me of a lot of people who had gone through, and were still here to tell their story. Underneath the scars you could still see the faint outline of the linear design it originally had. It probably was not always this scarred, this damaged, this deformed. I am sure many beach-bumpkins picking shells were repelled by its appearance, probably dropping it in a hurry in favour of the more perfectly formed ones.
But I was drawn to that shell. Like me, it was a survivor. It had a testimony to share and I was willing to hear it. More importantly I was willing to re-tell it. That scarred shell was one of the sturdiest shells I had seen and I was honoured to take it home with me. It’s story?
I’m still