When I was eleven-years-old, my dad and I drove down from New York to Florida for Christmas. I remember that Florida was cold and damp and cloudy that Christmas, but we still made it to the beach and I made good on a promise.
I packed some Florida sand in a plastic baggie to bring back to my teacher, Mr. Funk. When I had told him I was going to Florida, it was the one thing he had asked for. That first day back after Christmas vacation, Mr. Funk took that sand and poured it out on the classroom floor. He added water, dribbled out of a coffee mug, and then he took off his shoes and socks and walked barefoot through the world’s tiniest beach.
Now I’m sure some people could say that he was simply being silly, entertaining a bunch of sixth graders who had never seen a teacher barefoot before.
In my mind, though, there is no question as to what Mr. Funk was doing. When he walked around in that sand, he was saying thank you. He could have said thank you a hundred different ways. He could have said “thanks” and stuffed the bag of sand in his desk. He could have opened the bag and run his fingers through the sand.
But instead, Mr. Funk said thank you by making the most of each grain of sand and turning it into a celebration.
Writing this blog has been my way of saying thank you to God, to the people of Hope Episcopal, to my friends and family and teachers, to anyone who has shaped my life in ways both great and small.
While we always honor the enormous and momentous times of our lives, I have tried to use this blog to honor the little things that may have seemed benign and insignificant at the time, but like a snowball rolling down the hill, have built over the years into an overwhelming force of change.
For instance, who but God could have known that the Narnia books my father gave me as a child would, after many years of searching, finally lead me to a church?
And in that church, who but God could show me His presence in the kindness of strangers, in the silence and stillness of a garden and in the wonder and majesty of a tiny, little library hidden behind wardrobe doors?
Who but God could have known that the word “hope” whispered to me in my darkest times was more than a call to action; it was the name of a church I would one day call home.
Who but God could know how beautiful each grain of sand is in my life and allow me to celebrate those times with you?
Thank you.
