The Sand Bucket Parable

I haven’t spent much time at the beach this summer because other things have been going on, plus we’ve had some pretty hot days, which for an old guy like me aren’t exactly the ideal conditions for sitting on a white sandy beach. I do love sitting in a beach chair under the umbrella, listening to the sound of the waves washing ashore and reading and people-watching. There is a wonderful sense of joy in hearing laughter and the voices of children playing in the surf, dramatically pretending to be in great danger when in fact they are perfectly safe.

When I was a child, we would go to LBI each year and my parents would buy me a new bucket and shovel at Hands Department Store, costing roughly 25 cents. They were made of tin and were always decorated with some cartoon characters like Mickey Mouse or Popeye or Woody Woodpecker or cowboys like Roy Rogers or Gene Autry. 

As I played along the water’s edge, I would dig for sand crabs, filling the bucket to the top and insist that I take it home, believing they could live very comfortably in the bucket of sand—perhaps forever or at least for a very long time—which of course was a kid’s limited understanding of biology. By the next day they had all died and I was just left with a stinky bucket to be dumped in a far corner of the yard. 

Several years ago I saw in a case in a collectibles shop on LBI, a tin bucket just like the ones my parents bought me for 25 cents each year. The price tag was $350!  If only I knew then what I know now! Actually it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. I probably would have still filled it with sand and crabs. I was a kid; why would I care? Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow. Kids are mostly present moment people.

Then we grow up and think, “if I only knew then what I know now…” Deep sigh and shrug of the shoulders. Life goes on.

But what we know now is what we will allow ourselves to know. And truthfully, it’s all we need to know for the living of these days. And what is it that we know now? We know that we are living, breathing creatures privileged to be still walking on this earth. We know that life is unpredictable but still gives us the permission to pursue our dreams if we’re so inclined. We know that there are things that bring us joy and happiness, and that we should fully allow ourselves the time for them when the opportunity presents itself. And we know that we are loved even on the days we don’t feel so lovable.

May I suggest that you make your own list: Things That I Know That Makes My Life Something To Celebrate. 

Just a thought.

RIDING THE HOPE TRAIN

 Another summer of my life is making its way toward autumn—and I am too—riding on the calendar train as it chugs along the track of inevitability. I can hear the clickety/clack of the one-day-at-a-time progress toward the unknown territory of the future. I have hopes of seeing friendly faces waiting at the depot when I arrive, waving, not palm branches as if I were worthy of a holy reception, but at least hands gesturing a sign of welcome, “Glad you’re here!”

The thing is that all of us want to be welcomed to the future. After all, we’ve traveled through some sometimes rough and often threatening terrain. There were train robbers along the way, wanting to take our supply of joy and hope. There were things on the track attempting to interfere with us getting to a safe and lovely place. Yet we’ve made it this far so far. And we’ve survived pretty well. But for some, not necessarily altogether healthy.

By the way, it’s not the first time nor the first train we’ve journeyed on. And we know that how we travel—that is, what kind of passengers we are—makes a difference as to how we arrive at the next station, the autumn depot.

 For one thing, were we congenial to the others on board, knowing that we all shared the ride in hope of a promising destination? Were we kind and forgiving of ourselves for when we lost hope and spent our time in anger and cynicism? Did we at least spend some time, even a millisecond, in prayerful thanksgiving for what is right with the world and for those who have made it so?

There are many ways of journeying on this train to the future. We will arrive at the station soon. Here and there, in our daily progress, maybe we could consider that we’ve made it safely thus far, and upon our arrival disembark and breathe in the fresh fall air, and celebrate the splendor of the colors of the new season, and most importantly, ordain ourselves as prophets of hope and joy and love.

 Just a thought.