Dear Jane,

As I sit here on the beach at Argelès-sur-Mer, sunbathing, collecting shells, and practicing my French, I find myself thinking of you. Since you’ve enjoyed my fairy tales so far, here’s another.

 

Far below the dancing waves, where shafts of sunlight reach through clear blue water, there lived a little striped fish named Finn.

 

Finn loved everything about the sea. He loved the coral gardens, forests of swaying kelp, and schools of shimmering fish 🐠 🐠 🐠 that turned together as though they had a professional choreographer and had been practicing for years. But more than anything else, Finn loved the creatures themselves. He delighted in their distinct personalities, their talents, he admired their creativity, laughed at their quirks, and was endlessly curious about the magnificent ways they moved through the world, including the ones who could suddenly make themselves all puffed up, and the bottom feeders, who seemed diligent, ravenous and especially slitherly.

 

One afternoon, in a state of complete flummoxticity, he decided to venture away from the reef. As he rounded a bend where the marsh grasses meet the sea, he spotted a tiny kayak drifting lazily among the reeds. And there, to his great delight, was his friend Lisa, the little sea otter, resting her paddle across her kayak.

 

(Everyone in the marsh knew Lisa led a very busy life, but no one ever felt rushed in her presence. She had the uncommon gift of making every creature feel that, for those few moments, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.)

 

She looked over, waved, and within moments the two of them had fallen into one of those delightfully meandertational conversations that never seems to arrive anywhere, yet somehow leaves you better for having had it.

 

Finn ponderificated on the state of the sea. “Lisa, I’ve spent a great deal of time enjoying the remarkable creatures who share these waters with me. I wouldn’t trade this ocean for any other. It’s just that sometimes I run into a creature who leaves me in a state of complete frazzmuddled perplexipation.”

 

Instead of answering, she asked what sorts he had met that day. Finn laughed. “Oh…the usual hodgepodgery.” The little sea otter smiled. She rested her paddle across her kayak and looked over the wide blue sea.

“Finn,” she said, “I think of it as a sea of humanity.”

Finn looked across the water at her. “A sea of humanity! Why, that’s the best description for it, isn’t it!”

 

For a while neither of them said another word. They simply watched the sunlight dance across the water. At last Lisa dipped her paddle into the water and, with two strokes, disappeared among the tall marsh grass.

 

Finn chuckled and turned toward home. Somehow, the sea had become a little larger and a little lovelier.

 

Love,

Frank

P.S. Jane, I’ve thought about Lisa’s little phrase ever since. A sea of humanity.  It explains an awful lot, doesn’t it? 

Perhaps that’s what a sea of humanity asks of us. Some creatures become treasured companions. Some simply cross our path. A few leave us scratching our heads.

 

Here’s the thing: The happiest way to live is to enjoy the remarkable variety of people God has placed in the sea (in all their glory) and to be kind and considerate. Then, choose with discernment those with whom I share my little stretch of water.  For the others, Jane, I’ll admit it. I’ve found it’s perfectly acceptable to exchange a friendly wave and continue swimming in opposite directions. Because the rest, I think, is best left to God.

 

And with that, I’ll fold up this letter before the tide carries it off.