A water bottle filled with sand sits on the windowsill beside my desk. I’ve never been one to collect sand from the beach. That was my sister, Maria, and the bottle is filled with sand from our last vacation together in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.
A few weeks after Maria died in her sleep, I was helping my brother-in-law clean up their yard and there it was, under a tarp in a pile of things from the vacation—a bottle of sand from my sister’s favorite beach; her way of bringing paradise home.
I held the bottle in my hands, picturing Maria sitting comfortably on her towel with a big straw beach hat on, funneling the sand, handful by handful, into the bottle. “Okay if I have this?” I asked. Maria’s daughter nodded.
The bottle of sand has been on my windowsill ever since. Sometimes it reminds me of the soap opera my mom has watched almost every day since I was a kid—“Like sands through the hourglass” begins the show.
After Maria died, Mom stopped watching TV for a while. The day I went onto Mom’s porch to borrow something and the show’s theme song echoed out of the open window, it made me feel better. Maybe the grief over Maria’s unexpected death had shifted just enough that Mom wanted to feel back to normal, whatever normal had become.
But, mostly, the sand in the bottle is a message from heaven, a reminder for me to take the time to take it all in. Everything—the green grass, the sound of birds singing, even the grief. Take in every amazing moment of life.
Heavenly Father, help me be mindful. Guide me to see Your infinite blessings in sand and stone.
—Sabra Ciancanelli
