The divine wastefulness of a beach day

Huffing, puffing, we stair-stepped up and up to the Lake Michigan overlook at Kirk Park. The view was worth it, don't you think?

Today, at this very moment, in West Michigan, things are dark as thunderstorms crash down around us. But not Monday. Monday was crystal clear with only a smattering of fluffy clouds. The two of us, determined to be beach bums for the day, followed our "lookout" view by hiking down to the beach proper, and spreading out our gear. 

The seagulls, the happy beachgoers--few and far between--and the magnificent waves, rolling in, washing up on to the shore, completing what felt like perfection.

There is the feeling, when one goes to the beach, that you will want to finish your novel or a crossword puzzle, that you will want to be busy while you sit there. Or maybe just have the illusion of busyness. (We do not do stillness well, do we?)

But not me. Before too long, I had tossed aside my magazine, sprayed on the sunblock, and settled my body down on the towel above the sand. I think we sat there for a few hours at least, quietly, eating our gourmet cheese and crackers, then lying down to rest again. I suppose for this one day only, we could have qualified as beach bums.

Then, after awhile, I became more aware of the children and the kids-at-heart, flinging themselves into the lake, jumping through its waves, and racing against the current. I wanted to play. So this is me, psyching myself up, putting my toes in the water...

And then, I decided to just go for it, pink intertube and all.

And I jumped those waves, over and over, floating my top half on the intertube and hanging on for dear life. Raising both arms to the heavens and yelling "yeeeah!" each time I crested a wave--not that anyone could hear me, which made it especially fun. I started floating away to the left, as the waves kept coming, and David in his beach chair, getting smaller and smaller.

But soon it became clear that jumping waves alone would not be as much fun as jumping them with David. And so I begged him to join me, even though he didn't have a swimsuit, just shorts. And with protest, complaining of Lake Michigan's iciness, he moved out and into the waves. We made a memory, jumping those waves together, holding on to each other, as he eventually pulled me on my intertube back to the shore. 

What made it perfect, simply divine, was the warm terrycloth coverup waiting for me and the chilled watermelon waiting in our cooler. It was the nicest end to our beach bum day.

Long may the blessed wastefulness of a beach day reign. 

And all of this beauty courtesy of our Creator. Still takes my breath away.