Sandcastles ...by Max Lucado

                                                                                                                                                                                        Myron and Tom, pastors and friends. Myron told a great story about salmon, and the intense struggle that takes place to get 'home'. Many of us also struggle intensely in this life, but our struggles are not always for the home God has prepared for us. Myron also shared this story, of that kind of struggle (the man, not the boy ...be ye like little children).

Sandcastle Stories, by Max Lucado

(Max is one of my favorite authors.)

Hot sun. Salty air. Rhythmic waves.

A little boy is on the beach. On his knees he scoops

and packs the sand with plastic shovels into a bright red

bucket. Then he upends the bucket on the surface and

lifts it. And, to the delight of the little architect, a castle

tower is created.

All afternoon he will work. Spooning out the moat.

Packing the walls. Bottle tops will be sentries. Popsicle

sticks will be bridges. A sandcastle will be built.

Big city. Busy streets. Rumbling traffic.

A man is in his office. At his desk he shuffles papers

into stacks and delegates assignments. He cradles the

phone on his shoulder and punches the keyboard with his

fingers. Numbers are juggled and contracts are signed and

much to the delight of the man, a profit is made.

All his life he will work. Formulating the plans.

Forecasting the future. Annuities will be sentries. Capital

gains will be bridges. An empire will be built.

Two builders of two castles. They have much in

common. They shape granules into grandeurs. They see

nothing and make something. They are diligent and

determined. And for both the tide will rise and the end

will come.

Yet, that is where the similarities cease. For

the boy sees the end while the man ignores it. Watch the

boy as the dusk approaches. Each wave slaps

an inch closer to his creation. Every crest crashes closer than

the one before .

But the boy doesn't panic. He is not

surprised. All day the pounding waves have reminded him that the end

is inevitable. He knows the secret of the surging. Soon

they will come and take his castle into the deep.

The man, however, doesn't know the secret. He

should. He, like the boy, lives surrounded by rhythmic

reminders. Days come and go. Seasons ebb and flow.

Every sunrise which becomes a sunset whispers the

secret, "Time will take your castles."

So, one is prepared and one isn't. One is peaceful

while the other panics.

As the waves near, the wise child jumps to his feet

and begins to clap. There is no sorrow. No fear. No

regret. He knew this would happen. He is not surprised.

And when the great breaker crashes into his castle and

his masterpiece is sucked into the sea, he smiles. He

smiles, picks up his tools, takes his father's hand, and

goes home.

The grown-up, however, is not so wise. As the wave

of years collapses on his castle he is terrified. He hovers

over the sandy monument to protect it. He blocks the

waves from the walls he has made. Salt-water soaked

and shivering he snarls at the incoming tide.

"It's my castle," he defies.

The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom

the sand belongs.

Finally the cliff of water mounts high above the man

and his little empire. For just a moment he is shadowed

by the wall of water ... then it crashes. His tiny towers

of triumph crumble and disperse and he is left on his

knees ... clutching muddy handfuls of yesterday.

If only he had known. If only he had listened. If

only ...

But he, like most, never listens.

Jesus describes these people, the unprepared, by saying

they know nothing about what will happen. They

aren't cruel. They aren't rebellious or angry at God.

But they are blind. They don't see the setting sun.

And they are deaf. They don't hear the pounding waves.