At camp:
I was sitting there alone in the dark in the cold damp sand as I watched and listened to the beauty surrounding me. And it's all His. For us. For me. Watching an almost full moon sliding along through the misty patchy clouds, the light playing on the surface of the water. Now you see it, now it's gone. The sea so calm it hardly makes any sound at all, except for the quiet lapping, and the tinkling of thousands of tiny shells as the water tugs at them. The sound of a rain stick. This is the same sea that, just the other day, was turned brown and murky by the wind, churned into waves. But now all is calm and quiet. Watching the occasional flickering of silent lightning, orange-white on the horizon. Listening to the music coming from the chain of rocks jutting nearby into the sea. The sounds of guitar and a beautiful voice. Some of the songs familiar worship ones I recognise from back home. The group our "charasmatic" neighbours. I'm tempted to go over and ask if I can join them. Instead I stay in the damp where I am, singing along in English. The tears streaming down as I am overtaken by the beauty, by the stillness, by the quiet, by His love. His affirmation, His gentle assurance. Just what I was needing at that moment. I don't know how long I sat there, but the group singing nearby left and climbed the stairs back up the bank. Leaving me alone on the beach in the dark.