I was born and raised in a large city, its designs imposed by humans. Paved streets, curbs and sidewalks marked by play boundaries. The garden was a small plot maintained by my father whose roses required constant intervention. At night I listened to city sounds—fire sirens, ambulances, distant trains, traffic, and squealing brakes. All of it was artificial, created by humans for human purposes. The power of God was visibly present only in severe weather conditions like tornadoes or blizzards. Perhaps this explains part of the island’s appeal to me. When I walk here I see chiefly nature at work, not human hands. No one waters or fertilizes the sea oats, the sand is neither mowed nor groomed, there are no paved surfaces that sear my feet, and night sounds are dense with bird calls, fog croaks, breaking surf, and gusting breezes. Too much of civilized life omits God; on the island I feel close to His presence, aware of His power. I have only to stand at water‘s edge and realize the vastness of the uncreated chaos from which all matter was generated. Faced by the sea, the power and scope of God are undeniable. I thank you, Lord, for this refuge and the power you display. May I be ever respectful of that grandeur, in awe of your might. Amen.