Seventy Times Seven

My footprints cover the coastline.

          A wave washes them away.

My board creates deep gashes in the sand.

          A wave restores its purity.

My blood stains that beach.

          A wave pulls the blood into the sea.

And how many waves come?

How often does the ocean send forth its waters to clean that which is not perfect?

Not once, not seven times, but seventy times seven.

And I see myself in those sands.

I see that I am no longer the surfer but the beach, desperate for the tide to wash over me.

***

I wanted to learn to skim board today.

As I sit here and write, the saltwater is still dripping off my back. I feel a sting as drops roll down my scrapes, reminding me that I spent more time lying in those rough Florida sands than standing on my board. It seems I did, in fact, not learn how to skim board. Instead, I was taught something far more valuable. I was taught how to accept forgiveness.

As the sun rose in the east, I ran out to the ocean. I tossed my board onto the remnants of a retreating wave and jumped aboard. For a second or two, I was weightless, gliding across the Gulf of Mexico. And then I fell.

I tried again.

And again.

And again.

Sand was in my mouth.

Water in my ears.

Salt in my cuts.

I picked up my board to run another try. Walking up the beach, I turned to see my footprints on the sand. The next wave crashed, and water rushed around my ankles. It covered my footprints, and as the water returned to the sea, the beach was perfect again. No footprints. No gashes. No blood.

And then I knew.

Today I was not the surfer.

I was the beach. I dropped to my knees.

What does the beach do to deserve the ocean?

Nothing, it exists only because of the ocean. It was created by the ocean.

And how does the beach earn the waves that restore it time and time again?

It does not. The beach does not earn those waves. It must merely accept them. It must only acknowledge its flaws and allow the waves to purify it. And the waves will wash ashore. Not once, not seven times, but seventy times seven.

That is when I understood. I was the beach, my God, the ocean.

And I can accept His forgiveness.

This poem is inspired by Matthew 18:21-22: Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times? Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.