Consider the Lilies of the Sea

Fevers and Babies in the Summertime

Consider the Lilies of the Sea

By Anne Porter

Their salt wet life erased, eroded, only

The shells of snails lie on the sand,

Their color darkens toward the whorl’s conclusion,

The center is nearly black. Even the fragments

Faithfully observe their tribal custom

Of involution; the motionless whirlpool

Is clearly written on the broken shield.

The two jointed petals of a small

Tooth-white clamshell stand ajar, and mimic

The opening of wings or of a songbook;

Leaves that a minute and obscure

Death sprung open in a depth of sea;

Held in one’s hand, they still present

The light obedient gesture that let go of time.

And close to these frail, scattered, and abandoned

Carvings which were the armor and the art

Of dark blind jellies that the fish have eaten,

The big Atlantic cumulates and pours,

Flashes, is felled, and streaks among the pebbles

With wildfire foam.

Photo by Ian on Unsplash

*This newsletter was written back in May but never sent, and now it feels even more relatable now that a fever is running through my family! Here is the article as it was written in May due to exhaustion*

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I’ve lived the majority of my life near the water; many days were spent on my uncle’s boat with the vast sea around me, daring me to sail its waves. When I chose to more faithfully follow Jesus in college, it was easy to lean into the words of St. Therese: the world is thy ship, not thy home. Young and wide-eyed, through both the hard and exciting times, my own spiritual journey felt like a voyage through the ocean blue: some days smooth as glass, some with turbulent waves, but all of it bringing me closer to home in one epic tale.

In this season of motherhood, my days feel both louder and quieter. Toddlers run throughout the house with laughs that bounce off the walls. My baby cries every two hours in the night, craving my comfort. All of this noise, contained within my simple home, seems far from an epic tale. I often find myself sitting in my rocking chair, wrapped in the darkness as my eyes fight to stay open. These days, I feel less like I’m sailing the seas and more like I’m sitting on the ocean floor with its deceased snails and clams.

Death sprung open in a depth of sea.

This season of dwelling in the depths is as beautiful and critical as sailing the surface. What if God is the whole of the sea… even the dark, mysterious abyss? Consider the sea lilies, the creatures that have passed on but their shell carvings remain in the sand. They may not exist as they once did, but their shells remain embraced in the movements of the sea.

The Big Atlantic cumulates and pours.

In these seasons of motherhood, versions of me are dying and making way for something new. Through it all, the Holy Spirit dances like the current. The Holy Spirit sees our pain and still rejoices as we become the version of ourselves God wants us to be. He wants to wash His graces over us like the Big Atlantic. They hold the power to transform me, if only I allow this to take place.

The light obedient gesture that let go of time.

I’ve spent many moments wishing for an easier path to heaven, but such a thing does not exist. God calls me to spend time lying in the sand with a posture of surrender. The soul of me remains as I feel the wildfire foam working around me. I am holier than I was when I felt the breeze in my hair, and I will continue for all my days to grow in holiness. Through every moment of my motherhood, I am changing. Maybe one day I will feel the thrill of sailing the surface again, but for now I accept my hidden yet still magical season of embracing the depths.

When I come out of this season, I will rise refined like the pebbles…

Streaked with wildfire foam.