Spring Beachcombing in Oregon

Again this year I feel homesick as the weather transitions from winter’s wet to the unpredictability of spring. I grew up on the Oregon Coast where rain squalls were drenching, the occasional snippets of sunshine were briefly glorious, and both repetitively occurred the same day.

My family didn’t care. We were “beach combers,” an eccentric subsection of the human species.

Saturday mornings we crammed into our 1949 Willy’s Jeep, 4-wheel-drive station wagon with unmatched doors and half of a faded red tailgate. We were off!    

Mom always anticipated dry weather when planning the menu. Hotdogs to roast. S’Mores to toast. Crisp potato chips to crunch. And a large iced thermos of the “orange drink preferred by astronauts.” (Tang.)

Dad drove with intent-- out “Seven Devils Road” until we reached the flatland beaches.

Our favorite required that we cross the field of a farmer we never ever saw. This required money. At the entrance to his rudely-constructed easement stood a dilapidated stool holding a bucket and a handmade sign. “$1 Dollar to Cross.”  This always initiated a spirited weekly discussion.       

“Dad, what if we only left fifty cents?”

“Then you could only go half-way across.”

“If we were related to the owner, would we still have to pay?”

“Probably not.”

“Could we leave cookies instead? (This was my idea.)

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

Then with bravado, Dad left money in the bucket and drove onto the beach, a bold and risky move in the soft dunes.

“What if we get stuck in the sand?”

“Then we’ll have to dig ourselves out.”

“What if the tide comes in first?”

“We’ll have to walk home.”

We held our breath and prayed to safely reach the packed wet sand near the water.

For the remainder of the day we investigated. The wind blew behind us, then in front, then from either side. We didn’t care. There were valuable things to be found on the beach: jasper, agates, Japanese glass floats, beautiful shells. One time we even found a glass bottle. Sadly there was no note inside.

We never complained about soaking cold rain, soggy hotdog buns, mushy potato chips and the likelihood that we would find nothing at all of value. Now I understand why. 

Adventure. There was always the possibility of a beautiful agate, a bottle complete with an authentic message, or a pirate’s treasure. And there was also the possibility of great disaster: getting stuck, forgetting to bring a dollar for the farmer, losing a hat in the wind.  Our trips were fraught with exciting possibilities, both good and bad.

The Passion Story of Jesus opened with those same two possibilities, though the consequences were more serious and eternal. 

When the disciples “drove onto the beach,” the worst outcome imaginable occurred.  Jesus, their vehicle got stuck in the sand; he didn’t even try to dig his way out. The unmerciful tide of public opinion swept him out to sea, leaving his followers without the slightest idea how to get home.

By the time they left town, everything had gone tragically wrong.

But the story didn’t end there. Three days later the stone was rolled away from the tomb. Jesus was alive. He showed them the way, just like he’d promised. And the farmer threw away his bucket. “Everyone who believes is welcome here. Come in. We are family now.”

The death and resurrection of Jesus is a vivid reminder to us all—don’t close the book too soon. Stay longer. Look deeper. When we seek the Savior our personal adventures always have happy endings.   

There really is a treasure.