The Whisper Of God

I sense a need to travel to Loggerhead and sit alone with only my book to read of post civil war-time folktales. I sit here on a bench, a donation of two strangers, their names engraved on it. I watch what seems to be an angry ocean with a strong wind, forcing the waves to crash the shoreline. I find it strange at noon the beach so desolate except for a few sandpipers running about on what is left of the sand. I see the beach being washed away, with every wave the shoreline eroding but even in its midst, pelicans fly by me, never alone a group of five, then two. The sight leaves me in awe A flock of pigeons, ten in all land in unison, in V formation. Passersby greet me, and I them. They all come in single file. The last one came on a three wheel bike with his cane in tow and a camera. We talk and he tells me of his sorrows and how an accident left him many years ago unable to walk as he wished he could a brain injury, no fault of his own, and how the days are long except for the taking of pictures of birds sometimes from the pier. I hear in his voice helplessness, like the beach might feel at the loss of its sand. I listen and offer a word of hope. It is at this moment I hear the whisper of God, and a mourning dove comes to rest on a vine nearby. A Bible verse comes to mind of a healing at a pool. I share of God's love for all, and in this moment all nature is silent, the waves have now hushed. The young man gathers himself up to leave, but this time he smiles as he struggles to reach his bike. I see the waves crash the shoreline and the birds begin to fly, but mostly a sense of calm, not there before. I bow my head to pray my soul is at peace once again.