When You Need Eyes for an Unseen World

Worlds beyond my comprehension exist. Unseen worlds.

Orange-scaled-water-breathed-fins-flapping worlds.

My eyesight, or lack therefore, has nothing to do with the validity of such a realm's existence.

So, why do I so quickly forget?

My husband and I just got back from a 4-day camping trip to Catalina Island off the coast of California. A place of few cars (it takes 14 years to get a permit to own one). No stop lights. No fast food. Bikes and golf carts. The main town of Avalon was too crowded for my taste (a Carnival cruise ship was anchored in the bay). But our campsite 1.5 miles up the hill was a sanctuary for mule deer, a family of quail, and several Catalina Island foxes who were the curious sort, even snooping inside our tent one evening in the gathering twilight. (We made sure the tent flap was completely zipped up after that!)

On our second day, we rented snorkel equipment for a morning at Lover's Cove -- a flippery adventure among the kelp fields. After tossing my towel on the rocky beach, I adjusted my mask and snorkel and backed into the water with my extra long rubber feet. I had expected to be chilly, but as the waves lapped around my wetsuit, I acclimated quickly to the 78-degree water.

I flutter-kicked away from shore, my eyes searching the underwater world beneath the waves.

The garibaldis were the most obvious--roundish, vivid-orange fish with plump bodies and flowing fins about the size of Kevin's hand. According to the gal who rented us our equipment, the garibaldi is a bit of an extrovert, staking out a territory and living out its days among the sponges and algae -- the food source of their rocky home.  

Several adult fish with a bit of an attitude swam inches from our face masks, staring at us with their unblinking eyes. The juveniles -- recognizable by their sparkling blue spots and blue-trimmed fins -- were a bit more introverted, staying closer to the ocean bottom and hiding from view if we got too close.

We swam for two hours. Several schools of silvery anchovies darted past. White sea bass seemed to float motionless just a few feet below. Other fish we did not know, and for which we had no name, eyed us with suspicion. Kelp swayed and danced in the ocean's currents.

When I climbed out on the rocky beach, a spiny kelp crab skittered sideways near our stack of belongings, not stopping for a photo from the paparazzi of schoolchildren that had just arrived.

Toweling off, I gazed over my shoulder at the cove, the waters washing closer as the tide came in. A few resident garibaldis were still visible from the surface, creatures of an underwater world I had never seen until that day.

Underwater worlds are easy to forget as I live out my days in a skin-covered-oxygen-breathed-feet-walking existence. A realm where water kisses skin, plants dance with current partners, and orange fish play hide and seek in a rock bed seems unfathomable here in the desert.

And not just in the desert, but in this culture that proclaims you must see to believe and what does that mean to a mom in my world who is worried about her autistic son? And what hope is there for a friend who is near the end of her journey as her family sets up hospice care? And if this seeing world is all there is, what can I say to a friend in unending-week-after-week-doctor-after-doctor pain?

Not all worlds can be seen with earth-focused eyes.  

This. This I believe.

I want to snorkel in this unseen world, not found beneath waves, but found beyond the skies. No pain. No tears. No death.

I don't want to back into this realm filled with the unimaginable.

I want to dive deep -- headfirst -- and swim long.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:18