places of faith, oceans of grace.

I’m coming over the last ridge, after a forty-five minute drive through the redwoods and along a twisting road through the hills. I’m engrossed in a podcast from NPR’s “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” and already considering my to-do list for work. I’m feeling the lack coffee in my system and the readiness to get out of the car.

***

I’m on my way to the rural South Coast of Northern California the place my heart now calls home, Puente de la Costa Sur. I spend three days a week there, supporting the non-profit’s work as a resource center for four isolated communities of farmers, farmworkers, and families. I make the hour-long drive willingly, giving thanks for the time to clear my head and pray. Sometimes I call my mom and sometimes I call my partner. Sometimes I sing prayers for Sunday, practicing until it won’t be a performance. Sometimes I sip coffee or eat breakfast.

And sometimes I shut everything off and drive in silence.

I’m very much a young woman from the Midwest. I love flat farmland and white oaks and the riverbanks of Northern Illinois. I love the autumn leaves and the way Lake Michigan freezes over. I think trees should lose their leaves in achingly beautiful evasive dances to the ground, and I think that the savannahs along the Rock River are breathtaking. I don’t understand earthquakes and I miss thunderstorms.

When I left the Midwest, when I said yes to my first call in a congregation in Palo Alto, CA, my thesis Advisor Ted Hiebert told me that I should never take the redwoods for granted. I wondered how anyone could look at those beautiful giants not be overwhelmed.

Two and a half years later, I don’t gape open-mouthed at the redwoods anymore. I don’t stop to hug the three big trees on my walk to the church or give audible thanks for the redwood that’s visible from the sanctuary. I don’t take these trees for granted, but I’m used to them. I have redwood bark and seeds and needles in my house—domesticated objects of the wild. When I stand at the base of a giant, I look up at the canopy with gratitude, but no longer with tears of wonder glistening my eyes. They are beautiful, and somehow I’ve internalized them.

But I’m not quite used to this landscape.

When I left the Midwest, it wasn’t long before I got my first real taste of the ocean. During our first week here, my partner and I drove out to the coast to eat dinner overlooking the sunset and the waves. We were still reeling from our cross-country move, still grieving family and friends and familiarity, even when we knew deep in our hearts that God had called us west. We looked out at the ocean, at the waves that kept coming, and ate. After dinner, we climbed down closer to the water, letting the salt and the sand get into our hair, into our souls. Then we drove back home to the peninsula, waves at our backs.

A couple months later, a good friend from seminary and her partner came out to visit us for Thanksgiving and we went to ocean, for her first experience of the Pacific—ever. We walked over the edge, where the waves lapped up onto the sand. We wandered along the coast and discovered a cave with a heart carved into the opening.

A month later, another good friend came to stay with my partner and me and we scrambled over the rocks to an island that so often is cut off from mainland. We climbed to the top (ignoring the bird droppings) and let our feet settle into the ice plants and algae. We crossed back to the beach, just as the ocean began to rise again.

And many months later, my parents came to visit. My mom had never seen a seal before and we walked along that same coast line until we got to a family of seals. She and I climbed out onto the rocks and when she slipped and fell, she came up laughing. “They’re so close!” And she, covered in salty ocean water, climbed back into my car glowing.

***

I’m coming over the last ridge. I slow down, as my breath catches in my lungs. I pull over and climb out of my car. I can hear the waves—over and over—their rhythm continues.

I’m used to the redwoods, but this view—this never-ending water running into sky—I never get used to it. The waves keep coming, never exactly the same, but never completely different. Like grace, those waves keep coming. Like grace, those waves can’t be stopped. Like grace, those waves change everything.

This new landscape never freezes and yet it’s always there, welcoming me to my new home, reminding me of how faithful God has been in this call to an unknown landscape. I will never give up my Midwestern self but that same self is in awe of that water.

Water that is always there—welcoming me and waiting and sending me on my way.

- See more at: http://www.ecclesio.com/2014/11/place-of-faith-abby-mohaupt/#sthash.mg4R614v.dpuf