I wrote this in November of 2017
Sharing here so I don’t forget…
11/20/2017
I wish you could have been with me at the Tennessee Aquarium last week.
I don’t even like aquariums. Something about places like that: Zoos, Malls, Museums...make me cranky. Visitors shuffle through in the same pattern and have the same experience as the last 300 people.
Diva behavior. I know.
Well, somehow Zach convinces me that I’ll just love the Chattanooga Aquarium.
Making our way through, I'm having a surprisingly pleasant time. Maybe it’s the lack of people with their smartphones out. What is it with people at aquariums taking scores of pictures of nameless gray fish behind glass? Like, are you planning to frame that or...
We pass stingrays that fly through the water and tanks of tiny tropical Nemos and around a corner to the darkest part of the journey.
You know the room.
People push their strollers right up to the glass and park them because even the littlest people are mesmerized here.
The space glows blue and I slow to a standstill. Hundreds of translucent, bell-shaped creatures ebb and weave to a song that only they can hear. I choose just one to watch.
A warm tear wavering on the edge of my lid surprises me as it drops fast onto my folded arms.
For three, maybe four days leading up to this aquarium trip there’s been a thought echoing in my head that sounds like,
"You’re not trying hard enough.”
Standing in front of the jellyfish tank was like taking off a pair of headphones with that phrase on repeat.
Every sound in my soul is empty-chapel quiet watching the pulse of jellyfish.
I’m a mammals girl. Give me a pet I can hug. Not a slimy sea dweller that inflicts day-ruining injury upon unsuspecting beach-goers. But that hot tear rolls down my forearm and onto my shirt with another one close behind.
Rising and falling in a four foot tank is all this creature who is 90% water will ever do.
And it’s enough.
He can’t deny his symmetrical, gelatinous form. He can’t be anything besides what he was created to be. His movements start right in the center of his being. His umbrella-shape folds and opens and I see the Hand of God.
Detailed.
Thoughtful.
Complete.
This jellyfish doesn’t need to be a graceful stingray to lead me to the feet of the Creator. He doesn’t even need to be the fastest or the biggest. He simply has to be.
With my hands clasped around my coffee mug for warmth this morning, I ask the Father for the desire to ebb through my day with gentle simplicity. And maybe, like a worry-free jellyfish, accepting exactly what I was created to be will somehow cause even just one person to see the Creator.
Praying that for you, too.