Sabbatical Sabbath

It was Sunday morning, and the First United Methodist Church of Morehead City called to us.  We love this church, and especially Reverend Powell Osteen, one of the best preachers I have ever heard.  This church is a welcoming congregation and even though we have not worshiped here for ten months, I think Powell recognized us, making us ineligible for the delicious loaf of bread presented to first-time worshipers (which we were surprised and delighted to receive four years ago).

It was comforting to be back in a Methodist Church again.  My own sojourn through the Christian faith led me to be christened an Episcopalian, raised a Congregationalist, confirmed a Methodist, and finally ending up an elder in the Presbyterian Church.  But this church feels like home to us, accommodating my long legs and unruly opinions, and soothing us with the old familiar hymns.

O God our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come;

Our shelter from the stormy blast

And our eternal home.

It was Epiphany Sunday and we went up to take communion, little wafers and tiny glasses of juice, kneeling at the alter rail.  Powell preached the first in a series of sermons on things our mothers told us when we were children.  Today it was "Always wear clean underwear."  We may look fine on the outside, but it is what is within us that counts, as Jesus told the scribes and Pharisees who were outwardly pious but inwardly unclean, like whitewashed tombs.  Next week we will hear a sermon on "Always eat your veggies," and then "You'll understand when you have kids."  Humorous, insightful, this preacher is a true gift to Morehead City and will be missed when he retires.

After lunch at the condo, we took a walk down to Oceanana Pier and back.  It was still warm, although the wind had picked up a bit.  Overhead this squadron of pelicans was looking down on all of us from a cloudless blue sky.

And we spotted these little green plants, which I am determined to identify before we leave, sprouting out of the white sand.

It is about a mile to Oceanana Pier and back, a landmark on our daily walks and runs.  It did not seem to be damaged much by Hurricane Florence.

On the way back, Martha noticed a bright blue object in the surf, which turned out to be a Portuguese Man of War.

And just before we returned to the condo, Martha spotted this set of stairs, unmoored from its proper place by the hurricane, now spread out on the sand forlorn and useless.

Always wear clean underwear, we were reminded.  It is what is inside that counts, that part of us that the world does not see.  Keep the doors of perception open.  Remember who you are.