“Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in thee.”
Even though I know there are all kinds of gulls, I am fascinated to spot what I still call seagulls in places very far from the sea. I often see them congregating in parking lots. Perhaps there is something in the long stretches of gray asphalt accented by white lines that brings to mind a vast and endless ocean and white-capped waves.
Perhaps I, too, was made for the water. And something restless in my soul calls from the wild places where the Spirit hovered in the beginning over the face of the deep. But I pull back, resist the lure of chaos and look instead for some artificial place of calm. I fly aimlessly over parking lots, hoping that rigid facsimile of the sea will keep things understandable.
In the end it never works. My heart is restless for the rhythmic persistence of the waves, for the place where all the crashing and foaming makes sense, speaks to some greater purpose, and tells me in wordless eloquence I am not alone. So why do I fight the sea? Why do I fear the ill-at-ease moments when all they say is I was made for something more? My heart is restless, restless. Spirit, sing your music and I’ll surrender to the sea.