our stories are nativity

We’re sitting at the Devil’s Punchbowl in Oregon, watching whales breach and spout and the surfers are riding hard, waves frothing at the mouth and blue skies above.

There’s a shine where the whales are surfacing, as the water glints off their backs, and we’re eating cranberries and grapes and salami and tortilla chips.

“Watch,” she tells me. “You don’t want to miss it,” and so I watch, as the tide brings their laughter close. The children’s, running in the salty sand and “There it is,” she says, pointing. “Do you see it?”

I do.

I see the way the whales rise to meet the horizon, these mammals intersecting with the sky, and I think of us, and how our stories intersect. How we give birth to God through our conversations...


(join me, for the rest of this post, over HERE at She Loves Magazine today? and don't forget to link up with imperfect prose in today's earlier post by Nancy Franson! love you guys.)