She sat alone on the shoreline, hugging her knees to her chest, toes buried in the cool, damp sand. He came and sat next to her, shoulder to shoulder, in silence at first, together listening to the waves lap against the shore.
“Tell me your story,” He said, almost in a whisper.
Moments and years and trials and victories of words surged from her mouth in a torrent.
He listened, then reached for a stick and scrolled a signature into the sand.
Instantly, she knew. It was not her story – it was His. Her version was simply a strand of ongoing thread, sewn and woven into a far grander tapestry.
He had scripted it before the beginning of time, and had known it all along.
It was His story.
He held out His hand, and caused her to rise up.
“Now go, and tell it again.”
“This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.”
“I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the LORD has done” (Psalm 118:17).
“I will praise you, O LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonders” (Psalm 9:1).
“But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds” (Psalm 73:28).