Whispers from the Waves
by Constance B. Fink © 2001
It was not a long drive to the ocean, but with each passing mile, the sights and sounds
changed as if I had entered another world. In less than an hour the world of impatient
commuters and tall apartment buildings changed to an atmosphere of leisurely strollers
and Victorian homes.
The peacefulness and charm gently envelopes me and I begin to relax in the quaint
quiet environment. The main street, bordered with bright red geraniums, lush green
ferns, and shade trees gives a cheerful welcome. I stroll past the gift shop filled with
ocean memorabilia, past the tearoom patronized by friends in comfortable
conversation, past the bakery filled with enticing aromas.
At the end of the street the delicate sound of bicycle bells is drowned out by the
powerful rhythm of roaring waves. The pastel flowers in balcony window boxes are
unnoticed by swooping squawking seagulls. And as I take my first step onto the sun-
scorched sand, the soothing coolness of the tree-shaded sidewalk seems miles away.
That moment is a moment of choice for me.
Should I return to the tree-shaded street to find a private peaceful place to rest? Or
should I walk the vast beach before me to be absorbed in its majestic surroundings? I
chose the walk. I chose the beach. I chose the majestic surroundings. And I was
glad I did. For what I heard was stronger than the gusty whistle of the wind, and
louder than the steady roar of the waves. Unexpectedly, what I heard came in the form
of whispers. Whispers from God. From His creation. From His heart.
As I approach the water’s edge, the cares and concerns, so burdensome only two
hours earlier, seem to be carried away on the wispy clouds above.
Surrounded by the variety in God’s creativity, I stand in awe that He included me in
His design. He is God. Majestic Creator. My Lord. He created me for personal
pleasure; He died for me for personal relationship.
“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the
stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the
son of man that you care for him?… O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your
name in all the earth!” (Psalm 8:3-9 NIV)
Reaching out into the ocean is a rock levee. I climb on to the boulders, walk to the
end of the levee, and find a solid rock on which to sit. The waves are close. They are
in front of me, behind me, alongside me. From this vantage point, I watch the swirling,
dark water beneath me. The rock is high enough that I remain dry. It is sturdy enough
that I feel safe. And as the powerful swells rush past to break apart into myriads of
water droplets, I feel only a gentle cool spray.
The Lord is my Rock. He reaches out among the waves of my life. He is above
all. When I lean on Him, I am not overwhelmed. When I rest on Him, I am safe.
Some of the rocks around me are smooth. Some are jagged. Some are wet. And
some are even dry. The rock, which comfortably supports me, takes the brunt of
repeated waves, salt, and wind. Year after year. Blistering summers. Blustery
winters. Stormy springs. And it stands firm. And it remains unmovable. And it
remains unchanged.
The Lord is my Strength. He takes the brunt of the waves of my life. He feels the
impact of the rough waves. He feels the wind gusts. And He does not move. He
will not move. His faithful strength is my stability.
Some waves are small. Some are dangerously large. Some greet the sandy beach
with a gentle splash. Some interrupt the serenity with a tumbling crash. Some begin
with the push of an ocean liner. Some from their own intrinsic power. Some are
heard from a great distance. Some are never heard.
The Lord is the Creator. Of waves. Of situations. Of relationships. Of people.
Different beginnings. Different purposes. Different displays.
The steady rhythm is soothing. The swell. The crash. The last little ripple. Over and
over. The rhythm becomes part of my breathing…wave after wave. Powerful swells
rise from the deep in a steady rocking motion. Gentle swirls write their graceful
signature on the shore’s edge. Over and over. The rhythm of sounds. The rhythm of
movement. From sunrise. To sunset. Since the beginning of time. Continual.
Steadfast. Dependable.
The Lord is constant. In the brightest days. In the darkest nights. When one
small child notices. When all the world watches. Unchangeable Character.
Unwavering Promises. Unconditional Love. Unending Mercy. Unfailing
Forgiveness. Unbiased Justice. Unmatched Wisdom. His dependability gives
me security.
In the brief moments between the roaring waves, my eyes follow a gentle splash
nearby and I discover a crevice. The cleft in the rocks is small enough to capture the
small lapping waves, yet large enough for me to crawl between. This little cave is
comfortable. The sandy floor is dry. The rugged walls muffle the sounds. The sturdy
rocks provide protection. It is warm. It is quiet. And looking out from this cleft, I see
peaceful beauty.
The Lord is my Hiding Place. He gently invites me into His embrace. He
surrounds me… for my protection…for my respite…for peaceful perspective.
Leaning against the protective rocks, I rest. As the sun warms me and the breeze
touches my face, I close my eyes. And, with the words of a familiar hymn filling my
heart, my spirit relaxes.
“He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock that shadows a dry, thirsty land. He
hideth my life in the depths of His love, and covers me there with His hand.” My
Creator. My Father.
Out from the cleft lies the expanse of the beach. It is home – home to sandpipers,
seagulls and crabs. Its blanket of sand displays delicate shells. Some picked by
beachcombers, some noticed only by their Creator. Its shoreline holds footprints,
years of imprints, belonging to men, women, or children within reach of their Creator’s
love and grace. And it holds years of memories. Memories of a brother and sister
building a sandcastle, while mom naps on a bright-colored beach towel. Memories of
lovers walking hand in hand at sunset dreaming of a bright future. Memories of
tumultuous hurricanes and brutal blizzards. Today the beach lies tranquil, all but a fine
mist of tiny granules caught up in the gentle passing breeze. It is vast. As far as I can
see. Immense. Measureless.
“How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.”
(Psalm 139:17-18 NIV)
The low tide dots the beach with shells of different shapes, sizes, colors, and textures.
Some are broken; some are whole. Stooping to pick up a small conch, I notice that its
brokenness gives it a unique beauty. It fits perfectly in the palm of my hand, almost as
if it was specially formed for me. As I turn it between my fingers, its smoothness tells
that it was held firm in a place of constant pressure and relentless abrasiveness – gritty
sand, salty surf, pounding turbulence, icy winters, blazing summers. Smoothness – a
slow, gradual, steady process to make brokenness strong. A lot of effort…for a small
shell…for a big lesson.
The Lord holds me firm in my place of pressure. To smooth my rough edges.
To strengthen my broken part. To make me unique. To specially form me. For
His use. For His enjoyment. Forever held in the palm of His hand.
Two squawking seagulls distract my attention from the shell to the sky. The gulls
playfully tease each other, and then fly away. But my gaze lingers on the blue sky,
accented with wispy clouds. Like a canopy, it stretches across miles to cover both
land and sea. No obstructions. No limits. As far as I can see. And beyond.
“As far as the east is from the west, I remember your sins no more.”
(Psalms 103:12 NIV)
His love – no limits. His forgiveness – no conditions. His wooden cross – my
canopy.
The sunset’s brilliant colors and long shadows remind me that my day at the beach is
at an end. Turning one last time before crossing the street, I echo the hymn writer’s
awe-filled words:
“Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.”*
And then, with each step toward town, the roar of the waves and the whistle of the
wind fade. But God’s whispers remain. Poignant. Passionate. Personal. Whispers to
me. Whispers to all who listen.
*The Love of God by F. M. Lehman
Constance B. Fink was raised as the pastor’s daughter of a large metropolitan
church in New Jersey. She has a degree in psychology from The King’s College in
New York, and has worked at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and in the
Counseling Center at Bradley University. She has also been director of Christian
education, church secretary, church librarian, and coordinator of several women’s
programs. Married for twenty years, she and her husband are currently members of a
quiet community and rural church in northwest Illinois. Her articles have appeared in
Bible Advocate’s Now What magazine, Voice Magazine, Charisma, New Wineskins,
Rest Ministries Newsletter, and local newspapers. Email Constance B. Fink
back to Hope Stories
by Constance B. Fink © 2001
It was not a long drive to the ocean, but with each passing mile, the sights and sounds
changed as if I had entered another world. In less than an hour the world of impatient
commuters and tall apartment buildings changed to an atmosphere of leisurely strollers
and Victorian homes.
The peacefulness and charm gently envelopes me and I begin to relax in the quaint
quiet environment. The main street, bordered with bright red geraniums, lush green
ferns, and shade trees gives a cheerful welcome. I stroll past the gift shop filled with
ocean memorabilia, past the tearoom patronized by friends in comfortable
conversation, past the bakery filled with enticing aromas.
At the end of the street the delicate sound of bicycle bells is drowned out by the
powerful rhythm of roaring waves. The pastel flowers in balcony window boxes are
unnoticed by swooping squawking seagulls. And as I take my first step onto the sun-
scorched sand, the soothing coolness of the tree-shaded sidewalk seems miles away.
That moment is a moment of choice for me.
Should I return to the tree-shaded street to find a private peaceful place to rest? Or
should I walk the vast beach before me to be absorbed in its majestic surroundings? I
chose the walk. I chose the beach. I chose the majestic surroundings. And I was
glad I did. For what I heard was stronger than the gusty whistle of the wind, and
louder than the steady roar of the waves. Unexpectedly, what I heard came in the form
of whispers. Whispers from God. From His creation. From His heart.
As I approach the water’s edge, the cares and concerns, so burdensome only two
hours earlier, seem to be carried away on the wispy clouds above.
Surrounded by the variety in God’s creativity, I stand in awe that He included me in
His design. He is God. Majestic Creator. My Lord. He created me for personal
pleasure; He died for me for personal relationship.
“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the
stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the
son of man that you care for him?… O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your
name in all the earth!” (Psalm 8:3-9 NIV)
Reaching out into the ocean is a rock levee. I climb on to the boulders, walk to the
end of the levee, and find a solid rock on which to sit. The waves are close. They are
in front of me, behind me, alongside me. From this vantage point, I watch the swirling,
dark water beneath me. The rock is high enough that I remain dry. It is sturdy enough
that I feel safe. And as the powerful swells rush past to break apart into myriads of
water droplets, I feel only a gentle cool spray.
The Lord is my Rock. He reaches out among the waves of my life. He is above
all. When I lean on Him, I am not overwhelmed. When I rest on Him, I am safe.
Some of the rocks around me are smooth. Some are jagged. Some are wet. And
some are even dry. The rock, which comfortably supports me, takes the brunt of
repeated waves, salt, and wind. Year after year. Blistering summers. Blustery
winters. Stormy springs. And it stands firm. And it remains unmovable. And it
remains unchanged.
The Lord is my Strength. He takes the brunt of the waves of my life. He feels the
impact of the rough waves. He feels the wind gusts. And He does not move. He
will not move. His faithful strength is my stability.
Some waves are small. Some are dangerously large. Some greet the sandy beach
with a gentle splash. Some interrupt the serenity with a tumbling crash. Some begin
with the push of an ocean liner. Some from their own intrinsic power. Some are
heard from a great distance. Some are never heard.
The Lord is the Creator. Of waves. Of situations. Of relationships. Of people.
Different beginnings. Different purposes. Different displays.
The steady rhythm is soothing. The swell. The crash. The last little ripple. Over and
over. The rhythm becomes part of my breathing…wave after wave. Powerful swells
rise from the deep in a steady rocking motion. Gentle swirls write their graceful
signature on the shore’s edge. Over and over. The rhythm of sounds. The rhythm of
movement. From sunrise. To sunset. Since the beginning of time. Continual.
Steadfast. Dependable.
The Lord is constant. In the brightest days. In the darkest nights. When one
small child notices. When all the world watches. Unchangeable Character.
Unwavering Promises. Unconditional Love. Unending Mercy. Unfailing
Forgiveness. Unbiased Justice. Unmatched Wisdom. His dependability gives
me security.
In the brief moments between the roaring waves, my eyes follow a gentle splash
nearby and I discover a crevice. The cleft in the rocks is small enough to capture the
small lapping waves, yet large enough for me to crawl between. This little cave is
comfortable. The sandy floor is dry. The rugged walls muffle the sounds. The sturdy
rocks provide protection. It is warm. It is quiet. And looking out from this cleft, I see
peaceful beauty.
The Lord is my Hiding Place. He gently invites me into His embrace. He
surrounds me… for my protection…for my respite…for peaceful perspective.
Leaning against the protective rocks, I rest. As the sun warms me and the breeze
touches my face, I close my eyes. And, with the words of a familiar hymn filling my
heart, my spirit relaxes.
“He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock that shadows a dry, thirsty land. He
hideth my life in the depths of His love, and covers me there with His hand.” My
Creator. My Father.
Out from the cleft lies the expanse of the beach. It is home – home to sandpipers,
seagulls and crabs. Its blanket of sand displays delicate shells. Some picked by
beachcombers, some noticed only by their Creator. Its shoreline holds footprints,
years of imprints, belonging to men, women, or children within reach of their Creator’s
love and grace. And it holds years of memories. Memories of a brother and sister
building a sandcastle, while mom naps on a bright-colored beach towel. Memories of
lovers walking hand in hand at sunset dreaming of a bright future. Memories of
tumultuous hurricanes and brutal blizzards. Today the beach lies tranquil, all but a fine
mist of tiny granules caught up in the gentle passing breeze. It is vast. As far as I can
see. Immense. Measureless.
“How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.”
(Psalm 139:17-18 NIV)
The low tide dots the beach with shells of different shapes, sizes, colors, and textures.
Some are broken; some are whole. Stooping to pick up a small conch, I notice that its
brokenness gives it a unique beauty. It fits perfectly in the palm of my hand, almost as
if it was specially formed for me. As I turn it between my fingers, its smoothness tells
that it was held firm in a place of constant pressure and relentless abrasiveness – gritty
sand, salty surf, pounding turbulence, icy winters, blazing summers. Smoothness – a
slow, gradual, steady process to make brokenness strong. A lot of effort…for a small
shell…for a big lesson.
The Lord holds me firm in my place of pressure. To smooth my rough edges.
To strengthen my broken part. To make me unique. To specially form me. For
His use. For His enjoyment. Forever held in the palm of His hand.
Two squawking seagulls distract my attention from the shell to the sky. The gulls
playfully tease each other, and then fly away. But my gaze lingers on the blue sky,
accented with wispy clouds. Like a canopy, it stretches across miles to cover both
land and sea. No obstructions. No limits. As far as I can see. And beyond.
“As far as the east is from the west, I remember your sins no more.”
(Psalms 103:12 NIV)
His love – no limits. His forgiveness – no conditions. His wooden cross – my
canopy.
The sunset’s brilliant colors and long shadows remind me that my day at the beach is
at an end. Turning one last time before crossing the street, I echo the hymn writer’s
awe-filled words:
“Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.”*
And then, with each step toward town, the roar of the waves and the whistle of the
wind fade. But God’s whispers remain. Poignant. Passionate. Personal. Whispers to
me. Whispers to all who listen.
*The Love of God by F. M. Lehman
Constance B. Fink was raised as the pastor’s daughter of a large metropolitan
church in New Jersey. She has a degree in psychology from The King’s College in
New York, and has worked at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and in the
Counseling Center at Bradley University. She has also been director of Christian
education, church secretary, church librarian, and coordinator of several women’s
programs. Married for twenty years, she and her husband are currently members of a
quiet community and rural church in northwest Illinois. Her articles have appeared in
Bible Advocate’s Now What magazine, Voice Magazine, Charisma, New Wineskins,
Rest Ministries Newsletter, and local newspapers. Email Constance B. Fink
back to Hope Stories
© 2004 Dave and Merry Marinello, all rights reserved.
Welcome! Thanks for visiting our little "harbor" amid life's storms. We hope you
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
Whispers from the Waves
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Hope is My Anchor
Strength for your soul amid life's storms
Strength for your soul amid life's storms