The Key is the Key

thThis evening a my friend KS and I were going to take a walk on the beach. However, with dark clouds looming, and lightening beginning to flash for the third night in a row, we made our way back to our condo and continued our conversation.

Maybe 30 minutes later, no storm. In fact, the sky seemed much clearer, and we opted to chance that storm for a walk down the beach. And as we often do, we chatted about rather philosophical topics, while keeping our eye on the still impending storm threatening to soak us if we did not hurry back. Since we were already damp from the sprinkling going on, we decided it was, indeed, time to go in. To top it off, now we were hungry.

We approached the door, and I expected her to pull out her key to the door. She expected me to do the same. Um… key? I don’t have a key… Oh, yeah… we were completely locked out of our room. And this isn’t a hotel, remember? There is no desk clerk to run back to for another key card. No, this is a condo, and you need a number for the after hours people to come rescue you. Feeling a bit thankful the storm had cut the power our second night in and I had called to let them know, I called for backup.

About an hour later, the cavalry arrived and opened the door. Yay. Glad to be inside, we glanced at the counters expecting to see two keys… but only found one. Panic began to set in. I have no idea where my key is.

I go back to the beach while my amazing friend cooks dinner. It’s dark. The waves are relentless in their crashing at the sand. Little white crabs (and some not so little) are running all around me. All I can think is how crazy it is to be looking for the key… how I am literally looking for an key that is impossible to find on my own, and feeling like I am doing the same thing in my life. Not only can I not find said key, not having it makes me vulnerable. (Cue Jennifer Hart in my head “The key is the key”… Thanks Hart to Hart.)

And I remembered a friend telling me the story of a missionary forgetting her suitcase and then finding it on a luggage carousel from the wrong airline as they caught their next plane. The missionary looked at her and said, “And that is why we never worry with Jesus.” So after looking a bit, I gave up and came in. No key.

I told my friend my thoughts when I came in. As my friend began to talk I expected the key to be some kind of key to life situations going on. What she hit me with was grief being a key… Are you kidding me? Just hearing her speaking about it cued the tears. I can’t even tell you what exactly she said.

I basically hit a wall tonight. It was big. It was heavy.  It was dark. It was daunting.

We sat on the deck and listened to the waves crash relentlessly upon the sand. We talked a little more. And then she began to sing. Worship washed over me. Worship lifted me. Tears flowed. I could do nothing but let them come. Let them cleanse me. Let them heal me. Let them comfort me.

When she was done, I was exhausted. But felt a need to put this down. Worship. In grief. In sorrow. In pain. Worship is a healing balm. Worship is the salve. Worship is the key. My physical key is still missing, but I have a greater key to hold onto.


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