Owen, a young monk, sat on a sea cliff awaiting the voice of God. Day after day, year after year, he pleaded for an answer.

“Who am I?”

“Who am I?”

“Who am I?”

But the only voices he heard were the waves below and the birds above. Hollowed and hopeless, Owen dropped his head and cried into the crashing tides.

But something happened next because something always does.

“YOU ARE NOT ONE THING!” the clouds now boomed.

Owen fell back and reached for his quill.

“I am not one thing,” he wrote in his brown leather book.

The next day, Owen returned to the sea cliff and again awaited the voice of God.

“Who am I?” he asked again. 

“YOU ARE NOT TWO THINGS!” the clouds spoke.

“I am not two things,” the monk obediently scribed.

The next day, he again returned to the sea cliff.

“Who am I?”

“YOU ARE NOT THREE OR FOUR OR FIVE THINGS!” the clouds rumbled.

“I am not three or four or five things,” he added to his list.

The next day at the cliff, Owen had grown impatient. “If I am not one or two or three or four of five things, then what am I?”

“YOU…ARE…EVERYTHING!”

“Everything?”

“EVERYTHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!”

And the clouds parted and the sky roared and the sun blinded the monk with a sudden certainty, arrogance, and ego.

“I am everything! I am everything! I am everything!” he chanted through the neighboring town. And where he went, the people followed, enchanted by his simple psalm. The monk had spoken to the sky and the sky agreed with his hidden greed. He was everything and everything was his! To ravage! To ruin! To reign!

And the town fast became a city. And the city fast became a country. And the country fast became an empire. And the monk fast became King Owen of Everything!

Now our confident king demanded a grand tower in his own honor.

“Where shall we break ground, your majesty?” his royal architect asked.

“Atop the cliff where God gave me everything!”

So King Owen’s servants gathered slabs of stone from the beach below and hauled them up the steep steps. Floor by floor, they built to the sky, but it was awfully wicked work. Builders perished from pure exhaustion. Others began swimming into the cold sea to escape their hopeless toil.

King Owen of Everything refused to halt. Instead, he ordered his workers to construct a tall wall around the beach and the cliff and the rising tower.

“Build above the clouds!” barked the King from his throne.

Many years and lives later, the Grand Tower was complete. The King and his architect stood atop their twisted creation contemplating the order of things.

“What’s next, your majesty? You rule everything within sight. Perhaps you should rest on your successes.”

“NO!” shouted King Owen, stomping his boot with every word. “I AM EVERYTHING AND MORE!”

But something happened next because something always does.

The ground shook and the tides rose and the clouds roared.

“YOU ARE NOT EVERYTHING ANYMORE!” screamed God.

“Then who am I?” quivered the King.

“YOU ARE NOTHING!”

“Nothing?”

“NOTHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!”

And the sea cliff collapsed. And the walls crumbled. And the Grand Tower tumbled right into the sea. And King Owen of Everything was swept away.

For hours, he was gone. Neither dead nor alive, somehow floating between the two.

When at last he awoke with a choking gasp, he was adrift on a wooden beam in the seemingly endless sea. Salted and sore, he paddled for land, but there was certainly no shore in sight. In the churning dark waves, sharks circled.

“Forgive me!” he whimpered. “I have taken too much and given too little. I am nothing but the King of Nothing!”

So he let go of the beam and surrendered sorrily to the sea. And the sea swallowed him and he swallowed the sea and sank. Down, down, down, and again, he was gone.

But something happened next because something always does.

A fishing boat. Two fisherman, one young, one old. A trawling net. A limp body hoisted to the deck among the flipping cod.

“We caught a man!” the young one shouted.

“Dead or alive?” his elder asked.

“His heart still beats!”

Strewn in a puddle of dying fish, Owen opened his eyes and he believed he was one them. Alas! Drowned and reincarnated, only to end up in a chowder! But the fishermen assured him that he was not a fish and they helped him to his feet.

“If not a fish, who I am then?” he asked in a daze.

A sea wind whipped the deck and a thunderous howl tumbled the men like dice.

“YOU ARE SOMETHING AGAIN!” God bellowed.

“Something?” Owen replied.

“SOMETHING!”

“But what sort of something?” Owen asked.

“SOMETHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!”

The three men held their ears until God’s scream subsided. When the clouds at last cleared, Owen and the fishermen staggered up, bruised but unbroken.

“What was that?” the young fisherman wailed.

“God’s punishment! I was everything, then nothing, now something. It’s a long tale,” explained the former King and he told it to them from the beginning. That starry night, the men ate fish chowder and chanted a new shanty.

We rant and we rave

Through storms and great sorrows

We rant and we rave

at everything!

Before he was saved

he hadn’t tomorrow

Before he was saved

he hadn’t a thing!

Our King was forgave

tho his time was now borrowed

Our King was forgave

with the gift of something!

We rant and we rave

Through storms and great sorrows

We rant and we rave

at any old thing!

Lost and found at sea, Owen’s heart had changed. “I am no king,” he said. “I am just another man.”

“Then what should we call you if not King?” the old fisherman asked.

“Once, I was a young monk living by the sea. My name was Owen. I am he again.”

“To Owen,” the fishermen cheered and clanked their tin mugs.

“When God said you were something, what did he mean by that?” the younger fisherman now asked.

“Not everything, not nothing. I am something in the middle. Alive and allowed to begin anew! Without greed. Without shame. Without rage. Without pity. I can just be something and not worry of reign or ruin!”

“Well, what sort of something will you be?”

“Perhaps, I’ll become a fisherman like you and feed the people with my daily catch,” Owen said.

“’Tis is noble calling!”

So Owen learned to live on the sea and off it too. For years, he followed his fishing friends and they became a tight-knit crew. They taught him how to read the currents, which was much harder than any book or bible. They trained him how to tie nautical knots and untie knotted nets.

The fishermen instilled in him their patience, humility, and balance. The more he gave to his work, the more it gave to him, for he had no grand goals or hunger for empire. He bought his own old boat and a cottage by the docks. He was contained and content in his simple seaside life. The nets were full as was his heart.

But something happened next because something always does.

One summer Sunday at dawn, Owen found a ragged boy of roughly ten asleep beside his boat. By now, the man was wise enough not to curse or shout or call upon any authorities beyond his own. He knew a runaway when he saw one. As the sun rose and gulls glided above the waking harbor, Owen quietly tended to his nets and let the urchin sleep.

“What time is it?” the boy finally mumbled around midday.

“About time for me to put these nets out,” Owen replied.

“I’m hungry, sir. Terribly so!”

“You can have my lunch,” Owen said, tossing the boy an apple and a thick slice of rye.

“Thank you, sir! But what do I owe you?”

“You owe me nothing, boy. I’m well-fed and you are thin as a rake.”

“I could help you on the boat,” the boy said. “I’m stronger than I look and cleverer too! All I need is food and a roof. My parents are gone. I have nowhere to turn and nothing to my name.”

“What is your name?” Owen asked.

It was then that Owen first met Avery, the orphan who would become his deck hand and surrogate son. For the first time in his lengthy life, Owen had good wisdom to impart and a life to guide beyond his own. He came to love the boy for all he was and all he wasn’t. He didn’t judge Avery’s reckless acts and restless constitution. He embraced it all calmly, but the teaching of patience tested his own.

No one, Owen decided, is purely pure. We are born to make mistakes, both miniature and mammoth. You may not be forgiven for them all, but you can always give your own forgiveness.

Months later and miles offshore, the old fisherman and his chosen son gazed over the waves toward the falling sun. The nets were retrieved, the fish hold was full, and the deck was scrubbed down. It was Avery who undid the silence.

“What if I don’t want to do this forever?” he asked.

“No one does anything forever,” replied Owen.

“Of course, father! But how do I know what to do if I don’t even know who I am?”

“You are just a boy,” said Owen. “At this age, you are anything!”

“Anything?” Avery asked.

“ANYTHING!!!” Owen shouted.

And somewhere in the sky or the sea, God silently agreed and their words were swallowed by the noisy tide.