The Seagull and the Crab

A Long Island man went out for a walk alone on the beach. He saw some wildlife up ahead, wet and shimmering and moving near the water’s edge under the rays of the morning sun. The sand had a streaky path behind it from the thing. As the man got closer, he saw it was alive. It was on the move and leggy. It was a crab. He went in closer to check it out, but a seagull breezed in and scooped the crab up. The bird carried it off, but not far off. It made a soft landing a few feet away as the two animals struggled together in the sand. The man stopped and turned, deciding to silently sit and watch. He avoided the temptation to intervene with nature instead sitting back to appreciate the glimpse he was getting of the food chain ritual.

As he looked on, the seagull did battle with the fighting crab for a moment or two, but quickly lost to the hungry scavenger bird, and for a time the man felt remorseful. “Poor little guy. Should I have saved him?” And then the moment faded. “The bird needed food. The sea provided it.” The man sat on the cool sand, arms clasped together with each knee tucked under an elbow. He squinted into the morning light as the scene continued to unfold. The seagull, the easy victor, was no longer a champion, but just a hungry guy catching some breakfast. And the man’s mind wandered on about that.

“Three minutes ago, there were two animals on the beach: one crab and one bird. Now there’s just one animal eating a meal.” And he rolled that thought around his mind for a while as he kept his gaze on the scene. “At what point does the crab stop being a crab and start being part of the bird?” And he wondered it out loud to the salty breeze. And the salty breeze let him wonder.

The bird tore off another crab leg and gobbled at it. “Whose leg is it? The crab’s leg? Does the crab exist anymore? Or does the leg belong to the bird?” More salty wind. No answer. More squinting. More thinking. The man chuckled to himself as he realized the oddity of the question, but enjoyed the complexity of thought too much to let it go. He contemplated his own nourishment, his own meals and felt gratitude that he didn’t need to dismember them alive on the beach in order to eat. And laughed again.

And then his thoughts sobered and his heart felt grateful for the animals who had given their lives for his — like this crab had given its life for the seagull’s. And easily the man slid into thoughts about God, how Jesus gave His life. His eyes filled with tears at the thought of it, how he never noticed that in order to sustain one life, another one was sacrificed: a fish, a grain of wheat, an egg, a mushroom, a head of lettuce. In each case, a life was given to sustain another. He marveled at the design and the beauty in it. 

And just like that, the scene before him had become a lesson on the wonders of communion. “When I ingest the Eucharist, at what point does the communion wafer stop being the body of Christ and start being a part of me, one body given up for another?” And the bird finished his meal. And the man got up to continue his walk. He watched the sun grow higher in the sky and outwardly thanked God. 

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The man on the beach is a dear, lifelong friend of mine who blessed me more than he knew when he told me this story –so much so that I’ve kept it in my mind since 2009. And I don’t know the answer to those questions either? When does the crab become the bird? When does the body of Christ become the person who is receiving it? 

We have the opportunity every time we come to the communion table to become one with Christ. Doesn’t He invite us to do that? To come and taste and see that the Lord is good? To come and be in union with Him, communion with one another as we receive Him together? Do we see ourselves as transforming into Him? Can we even imagine doing that? Like the seagull and the crab, we ingest the Eucharist and become Christlike, still ourselves, but reflecting Him more and more. Even though we know the seagull doesn’t become a crab any more than I become a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after my lunch, it is true that the meal becomes the one who dines on it. The sandwich becomes part of me. The crab becomes part of the seagull. Christ becomes part of me.

This story is on my mind today because yesterday, at 55 years old, I received my First Holy Communion. I do not know when the Bread of Life becomes part of Catherine or just becomes Catherine, but I know that in the Word of God (Romans 8:29, 2 Corinthians 3:18, 1 John 3:2, and 1 John 2:6) it says that we will be “conformed to the image” of Christ “transformed into the same image”, that we will “be like Him” and that we should “walk in the same way in which He walked.” I think God is slowly making us able to reflect the character of Jesus and eventually become like Him. 

Like the seagull and the crab, I don’t think it’s an instantaneous thing; it’s a process. I’m grateful to have made strides in my walk yesterday, and I’m very grateful for the patient mentors of faith — they know who they are — that walked it before me. 

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