Drawing by: Casey Arden

By Andrea Lingle

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

John 20:24–25

On the shores of the ocean history lies, scattered. Things that have once been: bone, tooth, and rock. Things that have dwelt or roamed or stood have been ground to grit. Sand is always in motion, flowing like and with water from the mountains to the sea. The tides turn this collection of what-has-been, smoothing the footsteps and crab tunnels into an anonymous wash of shore. Where the land meets the water. The barrier between land and sea never lies in one clear space. It hovers in the average of the tidal dance. A dance governed by the heavenly meditation of the moon. It never slows or wavers. It never pauses even in grief. It paces through the sky, rolling through time and gravity.

Sand is not alive. It is basically the left over jots and tittles of an unimaginable expanse of time, but sand is a medium for life. It is the fabric of vitality on the edges of land. It responds to storms, harbors the offspring of marine and shore life, filters water; so, while not alive, it is vital.

What happens when spiritual practice is not met by experience? I have stood, outlined by doubt and grief, in the pews of my faith community, engaging in rituals in hopes of finding experience, but coming up empty. There are seasons of my life when I can truly say that my spirituality was a matter of practice not of felt belief. If you have never experienced this kind of disjunction, please deal gently with me. It is radically painful to practice belief without any felt experience.

Imagine you are standing in the middle of a small crowd. Small enough that you can distinguish faces across the room. This is a crowd that has gathered to hear a niche band with a cult following. A cult that you have not joined. In fact, you have never heard a single song from this band, and it's a genre you don’t even like. You are caught in the practice of the concert without the experience. The experience that you can clearly observe on the faces of those around you.

Imagine you are standing in an art gallery. Before you is an expansive white wall, easily forty feet long. In the exact center of the wall is a small painting, perhaps thirty inches wide. Before the painting is a bench, on the bench sits an elderly woman, dressed in a dusty blue dress. She is gazing at the painting without moving. Her lips are slightly parted, and her hair is pulled softly away from her face by a single elastic band. Tears have washed her face and her soft hands clutch an embroidered handkerchief. You glance at the wall and see a small painting of the seaside? Maybe a town? Maybe the suggestion of a fence? It’s all dots. Perhaps some sunlight? You can observe the experience, but you cannot enter the experience. Oh, there are other observers who have feigned the experience, but you can tell that it is mimicry. The thing itself is missing.

Oh dear mourner, oh beloved one drawn out of experience, may you allow the sands of grace to be a medium of life for you. Grace meets you when you encounter the grief of doubt, not by proofs, but by unapologetically stepping into the liminal space with you. Grace is found in the shoreline. Not fully land or sea. Feel free to stomp or drag your feet. Sit and dig. Bury your feet. Dance with the water. Leave your footprints on the sand knowing that they will not follow you forever. The moon will take care of that.