The sanderlings were everywhere on the beach.

I offer this picture, by @andrewpatrick.photo, because his work is amazing, and they moved too fast for me to ever get a good one.

The birds are comical.Their legs are too long, and they move with anxious, awkward speed. They always look like they are late to a meeting.

Hustling up and down the shore, grabbing food along the way, they look out of place, even as they are entirely at home.

And I realize, they are me.

The rhythms of my day are forced. They are critical, time sensitive, and entirely meaningless to an outsider.  Observed from afar, they surely seem silly.

My destinations are arbitrary. My pace is unnecessary. My jog in formal wear seems awkward. My quick bites are unhealthy. But I am at home.

Help me, Father, to pace myself.

May I play my drum for your glory. And may I play your rhythms, not mine.

May I play your song as you wrote it. And as I do, play through me, so that I make music all the way.And finish the song before the day is done.