Means of Grace
The wind blows from the sea.
The seagrass rustles.
The air is cool as your hair rustles.
You stand, tall as a ruin on the shore.
A lifetime of moving and shaking has taught you
that the wind always emerges the victor:
Sooner or later, all who fight it become flotsam.
It is only a matter of when.
It is a vigorous thing, that fight, exhilarating one day,
a thing of fear the next. A vigorous, prideful thing.
You have surrendered that fight. Let fate have its way
and you will trim your sails to find your way home.
You stand on the beach.
You breathe in the smell of flowers and earth.
The wind blows out from the land
and it is time again to sail.
About this poem
In the Methodist Church (And other denominations, I am sure) “means of grace” are the pathways and things in life and worship that lead us to understand and claim God’s grace and love.
The picture was taken on Cape Cod.