An old man walks down a Florida beach. 
The sun sets like an orange ball on the horizon. 
The waves slap the sand. 
The smell of saltwater stings the air. 
The beach is vacant. 
No sun to entice the sunbathers. 
Not enough light for the fishermen. 
So, aside from a few joggers and strollers, 
the gentleman is alone.

He carries a bucket in his bony hand. 
A bucket of shrimp. It's not for him. 
It's not for the fish. It's for the sea gulls.

He walks to an isolated pier cast in gold 
by the setting sun. 
He steps out to the end of the pier. 
The time has come for the weekly ritual.

He stands and waits.

Soon the sky becomes a mass of dancing dots. 
The evening silence gives way 
to the screeching of birds. 
They fill the sky and then cover the moorings. 
They are on a pilgrimage to meet the old man.

For a half hour or so, the bushy-browed, 
shoulder-bent gentleman will stand on the pier, 
surrounded by the birds of the sea, 
until his bucket is empty.

But even after the food is gone, 
his feathered friends still linger.
They linger as if they're attracted to more 
than just food. 
They perch on his hat. They walk on the pier. 
And they all share a moment together.

The old man on the pier couldn't go a week 
without saying "thank you."

His name was Eddie Rickenbacker. 
If you were alive in October 1942, 
you probably remember the day 
that he was reported missing at sea.

He had been sent on a mission 
to deliver a message to Gen. Douglas MacArthur. 
With a handpicked crew in a B-17 known as the "Flying Fortress," 
he set off across the South Pacific. 
Somewhere the crew became lost, 
the fuel ran out, 
and the plane went down.

All eight crew members escaped into the life rafts. 
They battled the weather, the water, 
the sharks, and the sun. 
But most of all, they battled the hunger. 
After eight days, their rations were gone. 
They ran out of options. 
It would take a miracle for them to survive.

And a miracle occurred.

After an afternoon devotional service, 
the men said a prayer and tried to rest. 
As Rickenbacker was dozing with his hat 
over his eyes,
something landed on his head. 
He would later say that he knew it was a sea gull. 
He didn't know how he knew; he just knew. 
That gull meant food . . . if he could catch it. 
And he did.

The flesh was eaten. 
The intestines were used as fish bait. 
And the crew survived.

What was a sea gull doing hundreds of miles 
away from land?

Only God knows.

But whatever the reason, 
Rickenbacker was thankful. 
As a result, 
every Friday evening this old captain 
walked to the pier, 
his bucket full of shrimp 
and his heart full of thanks.

We'd be wise to do the same. 
We've much in common with Rickenbacker. 
We, too, were saved by a Sacrificial Visitor.

We, too, were rescued by One 
who journeyed far 
from only God knows where.

And we, like the captain, 
have every reason to look into the sky
and worship.

Max Lucado

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let him know what you thought of his story!

ministry@maxlucado.com