Sabbatical Sabbath

Today we again attended the First United Methodist Church, where we found the white pews packed with worshipers; attendance last week had suffered from the cold and blustery conditions (93 at the 11:00 service).  We heard Associate Pastor Jason Villegas preach; earnest and young with unruly dark hair and no text before him, he nonetheless delivered an excellent sermon on the second in a series on the Ten Commandments.  Young Sarah Williams had the Children's Moment, but the only child present was a cherubic 8- or 9-month old girl wearing a big bow around her hair, carried by her mother, and staring with a serious, rapt expression on her face as if absorbing every word.

This is a well-organized church which I appreciate from participating in almost every capacity in many churches, off and on, over the years; its choir sings tight, difficult harmonies, and every single light blazes in its overhead chandeliers.  I had the feeling that somebody in this church has joyfully taken on the job of monitoring these bulbs carefully each week and would be personally ashamed to fall down in this small part of corporate worship.  It is a church that I would attend regularly if we lived here, friendly and open, young Jason listening with care to Celebrations and Concerns.  An older gentleman calmly and thoroughly shared his amazement at the many acts of kindness shown during the recent death of his wife and there were damp eyes everywhere..

After church we had lunch at the Ruddy Duck again, enjoying the tasty Hatteras-style clam chowder, before returning to the Condo.  It was a little chilly on the beach but it was low tide, so we found ourselves again as we have on an almost daily basis out on this wide beach, gleaming with afternoon light, looking at the bright coins that the tide had left in the offering plate, and listening to the Offertory by this Coastal Chancel Choir of waves gently breaking.

There is a whole line of oceanfront houses just a little way up the beach to the east, dressed in their colorful Sunday best as if standing up to sing a hymn.  (And perhaps that is as far as I can carry this fanciful analogy.)

We turned back and I stooped to take photographs of shells that had been polished as smooth as pebbles in a mountain stream, and almost stepped on a sand dollar that Martha pointed out.  Then she found another, both of them a little tattered around the edges, but unbroken.

Here they both are, still gray from the ocean, drying on a paper napkin.  And yes, that is a cartoon character named "Olaf" waving with an idiotic grin in the background on the napkin.

Martha has not missed many opportunities to gently poke fun at my hasty (and unsupervised) choice of napkins from the Food Lion our first night here. 

That is how it is here on this Sabbatical Sabbath:  the lovely harmonies of many choirs singing, riches beyond compare washed up for free from this endless ocean, and gentle laughter at blundering Olaf.