Seashells
When I was ten years old,
I was taught perhaps the greatest lesson I will ever learn.
It was not in a classroom
But rather came from the lips of a wheelchair bound women.
I was sitting at her kitchen table.
I was absent mindedly fiddling with the seashells that made up the centerpiece.
I then asked:
"Why are all the seashells cracked or broken?"
The women's face lit up,
Both pain and happiness hid in her smile.
I settled in for a story.
She explained a long time ago,
A time before the wheelchair,
She collected seashells
But only the most perfect, untouched, untained ones.
The shells that had not been cracked under the pressure of the ocean.
Soon after, she said,
She became very ill
So much so that it took her ability to walk.
Once she recovered, she returned to the coast.
She asked her husband to bring her a shell from the shoreline.
The one he returned with was chipped.
The women broke into tears.
How could she have been so blind, she thought.
How did she not see it before?
The shell and her were one and the same.
Both beaten by the waves to the point it damaged them,
But both still so beautiful.
Now I am eighteen years old.
I look in the mirror each morning and see my scars,
Emotional and physical.
A scraped knee,
A lost friend,
A cut hand,
A broken promise,
A bruised rib,
A dead loved one.
That is when I remember the words of the wise woman
And the broken seashells.
That is when I remember I am more than my imperfection.
That is when I thank God he has allowed me to experience life in full,
Despite the pain along away,
Despite the waves that tried to rob my lungs of oxygen.
Yes, I may have emerged on the shore a little more battered than before,
But I emerged a little bit more of the person I am suppose to be.
Now when I am at the beach,
I do not look for the perfect seashells
But rather the chipped, cracked, and broken ones
Because the shells and I are one and the same.
Both beaten down by the waves to the point it has damaged us
But both still so
So
Beautiful.
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