The Gospel in a Sand Dollar

I wasn’t looking for a sermon that morning—just shells.

Beachcombing has always been that way for me—a gentle gathering, not just of shells, but of thoughts, memories, and sometimes…truth.

That’s when I saw it.

A sand dollar, half-buried in the wet sand, its edges worn smooth by time and tide. Not perfect. Not pristine. But still beautiful.

I picked it up carefully, brushing away the grains clinging to its surface. And there it was—that familiar star etched across the top. I had heard the story before. The sand dollar and the Gospel. But that morning, it felt different. 

Personal.

Because isn’t that how God so often speaks? Not in grand gestures, but in quiet reminders we almost miss.

The star made me think of Bethlehem—the beginning of everything. A promise fulfilled in the most unexpected way. Then I noticed the tiny openings, five in all. The symbolism came rushing back: the wounds of Christ. A story of suffering I’ve come to understand in deeper ways over the years. Pain has a way of doing that—of making the Gospel not just something we believe, but something we cling to.

The sand dollar was no longer just a shell in my hand.

It was a story.

A story of love that came down to earth.
A story of sacrifice that changed everything.
A story of redemption—mine included.

Later, at home, I turned it over in my hands again. Fragile. Breakable. Like all of us, really. And yet, even in its brokenness, there is something hidden inside. If you’ve ever opened one, you know—the tiniest dove-shaped pieces, tucked within.

Five of them.

Peace. The presence of the Spirit. The promise that death is not the end of the story.

And isn’t that the Gospel?

Not perfection—but redemption.
Not avoiding brokenness—but finding beauty within it.
Not an ending—but a beginning.

That sand dollar now rests on my windowsill, the sunlight reflecting through it. God’s story is everywhere—woven into creation, whispered through the waves, and sometimes…left right at our feet.

All we have to do is notice.

And maybe, just maybe, pick it up and hold it close.

This blog post is dedicated to my mother, my spiritual guide and mentor, who passed away peacefully on March 18, 2026. She was 95. Heaven is now her home where she will be celebrating her first Easter. I miss her terribly, but I will see her again!