where waves grow sweet

 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

A few posts ago, I shared about the relentless grace of God at one point in my life and alluded to another. This is about that time.

At 19, I married Sean. We’d known each other as kids and reconnected at his sister’s wedding, which my dad did the ceremony for. I remember standing in the kitchen that night telling my mom he would be fun to party with. I’m sure she was thrilled.

And party, we did. But not quite in the fun way the word implies. There were many late nights with paranoid people in hotel rooms or neglected houses, snorting up powder that burned its way through our nostrils and sucking in cigarette smoke until it hurt to breathe.

I was in no place to step into a relationship, let alone a lifetime commitment. But I saw wonderful qualities in Sean and an unfulfilled potential that love would draw out. And he seemed to see something in me too. I felt understood. Our broken pieces fit together.

We decided to get married in a casual conversation on the way back from a trip to the desert with my family. I can’t recall how we reasoned this out after 3 months of dating, but it seemed a light and easy decision at the time. We were living together anyway, and had plans to move to Colorado. I wonder now if it was our need for perpetual motion and change; an inability to remain still. It is hard to say.

We moved to Colorado a short while later. We chose the town of Durango by throwing a finger down on a map of the state. It was a picturesque environment, but a painful time. We were explosive and damaging to each other. Hateful words were said. There were jealousies and abuses.

When Sean’s sister and her husband moved to the island of Lanai in Hawaii, their descriptions of the island sounded pleasant and alluring. We were desperate to get away from ourselves and the chaos we had created, so we sold everything and moved. We brought ourselves with us, so there was more of the same. But things were not as volatile as before. Maybe because the use of hard drugs had diminished. Mostly we smoked pot, which had a calming effect on the relationship and served as an escape for me.

But despite my attempts to disconnect from myself, I could still feel this internal alarm that something was terribly wrong. There were undercurrents in our relationship and beliefs that carried things where they shouldn’t go. There were distortions, and I could do nothing but bend into them. I was hurt more deeply during this time than almost any other; actions that marred me and spoke of my lack of value, confirming what I already believed.

But there was some happiness too. We lived in a fourplex with concrete floors that Sean painted a bright purple, with the cockroaches he eventually befriended. Rent was $200 a month. Our neighbors, native to the island, were unique and wonderful people. On one end was a quiet elderly woman who lived a modest, spotless life. In the middle was a mysterious man with long dark hair and chickens who freely wandered. And on the other end was Earl the Pearl – a gregarious man with dark skin, a beer belly, and lots of friends – who insisted anyone passing by drink a warm Budweiser with him and listen to stories.

Behind our place was a banana tree, where I stood in the morning to drink my Kona coconut coffee and smoke my cigarette. It was the highlight of my day and the only thing that got me out of bed in the morning. I took the shuttle from the center of the island where everyone lived, across the surprisingly arid landscape, and down to my job at the resort, where I spent the day overlooking the stunning colors of Manele Bay. I was no prize as a waitress, but there were good things and people in my job. I found a sense of community there, but kept it as separate as possible from the rest of my world.

After several months on the island, I started to get very emotional. I was surprised by the volume of tears and my inability to hold them in. I think Sean was surprised too. It was strange because I had become so removed from emotion, pretty much a nonentity that went about in life without really existing. It was hard to know what to do with myself.

It dawned on us one day that I just might be pregnant. So early one morning, I went to the clinic, the only place on the island to see a doctor. They sent me to the lab portion of the small wood building, where I met a friendly technician in a white coat, with short-ish curly hair and no makeup to speak of. I peed into a cup, handed it over to her, and then paced out front by the shrubbery while I nervously inhaled a cigarette.

After what seemed like an extraordinarily long time, she called me back in and reported that the test came back positive; that I was indeed pregnant. She could have had no idea what I’d been through up to that point, what my marriage looked like, or what I thought of myself. But she had to have seen the joy on my face.

It was Valentines Day of 1995, the day I experienced the most outright declaration of love I have ever known; the day I first knew that God loved me. I hated myself and felt unworthy in every way, but I knew that this little baby was clean and pure and loved, and that I had been entrusted with him so it meant I had value. And I now had a reason to live.

Faith sprung up from nowhere like a jack-in-the-box. Suddenly it all made sense. All the things I’d learned growing up in church finally applied to me.  Every day, I walked around the island for an hour or two and prayed and sang out all the songs that were in my heart. Everything looked different; brighter and warmer.

I started making decisions that were good and wise, small ones at first but they grew to be bigger and more significant. This was my second chance in life and I wasn’t going to blow it. There was joy in my heart, and I danced through the rest of the pregnancy. Sure, there were hardships. And there were plenty of heartaches as I struggled to lay down my addictions. But God was good and He loved me and I knew it.

Near the end of my pregnancy, we moved back to California to be near our families, a choice that turned out to be a huge blessing. And on October 7, 1995, on his very due date, Cole Traveler Gustavson was born.

In the heartbeat of this little person, the whole story of Christ unfolded for me – the lowly shepherds in the field being honored, the filthy prostitutes being loved and accepted, the outcasts finding a home, wretched sinners being forgiven. It is a story of love, from start to finish, and I, for one, have never been the same.

A song that seems to sum it up: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQej67Hd1FI.

My mom and I are taking an online Bible class together, which I think is very cute. One of the assignments this week was to write a post on what legalism looks like in the church. The following was my mom’s post, which struck me as a big bright spotlight on one of our greatest (and most defeating) tendencies as believers. Enjoy.

*****

What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God on the basis of faith. Phillipians 3:8-9

There is a very subtle way legalism plays out in all of us, and filters into the church. When we first come to know the Lord, we receive the free gift of grace that Jesus’ blood dearly bought. We are so light with the wonder of it, seeing only the fullness of his life. But as we go on, we think we should begin to try to the do things we are learning; the things a Christian would do. As he is changing us, we think it is up to us to keep this up. Our acceptance, which was purely based on the finished work of Christ, is transferred into service or performance. So now we are doing things not because we are free and forgiven, but because we think we won’t be accepted by leaders, friends, and ourselves for being spiritual.

Everything in our lives has to begin and end with the childlike belief that only by the blood of Jesus are we accepted before God. Whether I am a newly born baby in Christ or 60 years in, Christ Jesus is my righteousness. Nothing added can change the truth. It is never based on what we can do, but on what has been done.

How it seeds its way into the church is that it sets up unspoken rules on how to advance or achieve acceptance and climb the ladder of church leadership. Then we grow weary in thinking we are working for Christ when we are working in what has become a legalistic system, which leads to death and no longer has any resemblance to the life and love of Christ.

Another trap is that we believe we can’t approach God if we have had a bad day or weren’t kind or patient. But if we had a good day and have been kind and helped people and read our Bible, we feel like we are in the Spirit and think how pleased God is with us. But there is just one standard for his acceptance: We can approach only by the blood of the Lamb.

*****

Yep, thought you’d like it.

Since the topic on the forefront of my mind tonight is my newfound affinity for brussel sprouts (roasted up with a little oil and salt… oh my gosh), I am happy to say that I will not be writing a post tonight. Instead, I am handing it over to my dad who wrote the following article for Worship Leader magazine. But keep it on the down low, since it hasn’t been published yet.

*****

Monday was pretty ordinary this week till I opened an email and spent the next half hour in utter bliss, playing the video over and over.  Maybe you’ve seen/heard the” flash event” that took place October 30^th at Macy’s City Center in Philadelphia – called a “random act of culture.”

The camera panned the large open area of Macy’s as the organ played with erudition in the background. People of all ages and ethnicities were busy shopping, the beautiful marble area a lovely background for their mundane mall missions.

Then with breathtaking suddenness, the organ struck the opening passage of the Hallelujah Chorus, and over 600 singers scattered among very large crowd of shoppers began singing in perfect time and four part harmony, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah … for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth … hallelujah!  Hallelujah!”  Members from choirs around the city had gathered for this “flash event” and sang with such energy, beauty, enthusiasm and precision I was almost drawn to look up to see Jesus coming.

The shoppers were stunned.  They looked around, they smiled, laughed, held up their children – some attempted to join in.  I smiled, I laughed, I cried, I joined in.  Then I played it again.  And again.  My day had been invaded by Jesus.  And as I considered what I was watching and experiencing, I realized that in a very real way Jesus had, in fact, come to that mall.  As the song ended the crowd exploded in sustained applause.

Worship, celebration, the coming of Jesus – not just “in church” but as the church lives in but not of the world.  As disciples, we’re called to be the Hallelujah Chorus as a way of life.  Whether in a mall or in school or at home and work  – we have the great privilege of “declaring the praises of him who has called us out of darkness into his marvelous light.”  Until Jesus does come, we are the light of the world, the incarnation (“Christ in you, the hope of glory”).  May we sing more.  Even hum in Macy’s as we meditate on God’s love and goodness.  May we demonstrate His love so richly that others not only stop and take notice, but join in the song of Jesus they already vaguely know.

“Hallelujah! For our Lord God Almighty reigns. Let us rejoice and give him glory.”  Rev. 19:6

*****

If you haven’t yet seen the video he’s referring to, check it out at  www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp_RHnQ-jgU. Pretty much amazing.

For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. Colossians 1:13-14

I’m pulling the blog I posted last night. It seems like there was something missing from the story; something I can’t quite put my finger on. But I’d like to understand whatever it is before sharing the story. I still wanted to include the following portion…

Thank you for the kind comments and emails on yesterday’s post on my drug overdose. They were much appreciated. I was surprised at my own emotion, even today. There is a quote from a HOPE International microfinance client in the Congo that hits me hard every time I hear it: “I really give thanks because I was like an orphan. HOPE is like a father who came to save his children, fighting poverty with his bare hands.” When I think about how close I was to an eternity away from love, this picture is so real to me. Of a father fighting not only poverty, but every form of darkness, conquering even death itself. Okay, I’m in tears again. All I can say is thank you God. I am grateful.

But the Lord said to him, “Peace! Do not be afraid. You are not going to die.” So Gideon built an altar to the Lord there and called it The Lord Is Peace. Judges 6:23-24

I feel this forward motion happening and an excitement about what’s here and what’s to come, but want to pause and remember the heart-wrenching goodness of God along the way. There are two points in time that I have experienced the full unleashing of God’s grace. This was the first…

At 18, I moved to L.A. where I launched whole-heartedly into the darkest period of my life. The details aren’t particularly important, but I was lost beyond lostness with an increasing thirst for more of the same. The image I get is a body with a thousand holes leaking out faster than anything can be poured in. And everything I tried to fill myself up with just seemed to burn more holes, until it felt like there was nothing of me left.

One night my diabetic junkie friend, Pete, agreed to shoot me up with heroin in the bathroom of my apartment on Ogden. My roommate, Allison, and another junkie friend, Eddie, were lounging in the living room on the bed that served as a couch, or maybe the chair next to it. We must have been out that night. I don’t remember where. It was late.

The moment that needle went into my arm under the bright light of the tiled bathroom, I remember a moment of bliss. Of pleasure. Of peace. Of goodness. Of desperately sought-after escape. For that flash of time, a wave of wellbeing flooded all my dark parts and made them feel like golden fields. But it would not last. Not more than a few seconds later, maybe even the moment the needle left my arm, everything went blank.

I have no memory of collapsing on the floor, the frenzied attempts of my friends to revive me, or their panic as I lost normal color and started turning blue. I don’t know who called 911 in the end. But someone did.

I awoke violently vomiting on my porch while being carried to an ambulance under piercing sunlight. We lived in a nice neighborhood with Orthodox Jews and other upright people, a few of whom were scattered about that morning. They looked on from a distance as I was carried out. I saw faces, but couldn’t read them.

I passed out and woke up in the ambulance. The paramedics were angry. They asked if I realized the seriousness of the situation; that I had just almost died. They seemed to be working with intensity. I was irritated by their tone, and told them they weren’t helping the situation, just before going unconscious again.

The next time I woke up, I was laying on a gurney in the hospital, hooked up to some sort of IV. It was not a private or even semi-private room, more like a hallway or public space. A kindly nurse in her 50’s leaned over me and smiled. My agitation was gone. I felt soft but weary, like I had traveled a distance on a long journey. I had no understanding of the significance of life that day or a particular care that I survived.

But, oh, do I ever grasp it now. I can’t help but ball my eyes out. Not with sorrow, but with overwhelming gratitude for His great mercy. Not only to spare my life, but to mend every hole with His own body. It wasn’t until a few years later that the altar was built in my heart, one that brings me to my knees in humility and thankfulness as the relentless goodness of God continues to unfold.

And If I ever get to meet the paramedics who revived me that day, I will cover them with tears and thank them for the rest of eternity and then some.

I thought I was going to write yesterday, but ended up giving you a breather because of some spontaneous outings. Watch out, though, I may shoot a couple posts your way today. This one’s just a quickie.

Had to cancel some plans Saturday because I was fighting something off. (Turns out the rasp I noticed while singing the national anthem on the drive home Friday night wasn’t a newfound sexiness after all.) So yesterday’s excursions were a particular treat.

Thanks to a sick friend who couldn’t use her tickets (sorry Kristi!), I got to see Idina Menzel sing at the OC Performing Arts Center. Wasn’t familiar with her name, but was pretty familiar with a few obscure productions she’d been in… like, I don’t know, Wicked, Rent, Glee. My friend (Sheree) and I guessed, based on the freakish screams and applause from those around us, that she has quite a fan base. And now we know why.

I got home, grabbed a bite, and decided last minute to head over with my mom and Cole to a local church where a Ugandan pastor was speaking. Love that the body of Chris is connected all over this planet. Just realized that I typed Chris instead of Christ, but it changes the meaning in a way that hits me as really funny so I’m just going to leave it.

A couple updates on past posts:

My mom bought another big plastic Baja Fresh cup, so Cole and I no longer have to compete for the one we have. Why I didn’t do this a year or two ago is beyond me. Although we will deprive my brother, Christian, of his enjoyment of our mother-son hissing that reminds him of the creatures he loves so much on that Meerkat Manor show. Not quite sure how flattering that is of me as a mom, but always glad to entertain…

Yesterday, a friend and her husband invited me to tag along for the France portion of their Fall 2012 European holiday. Who knows how it will play out, but maybe this will provide the needed motivation to pull one of those numerous French books off the shelf. Aaah… but which one?

Okeee dokee. That’s it for now. Hope you have a great Monday.

Vive la France!

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:21

When I sat down to write last night, I could hear the lonely cries of the forgotten object that nearly bumps my elbow when I’m typing at my nifty new work station. I yielded to its call, trading my green wooden chair for the cushioned piano bench, a pleasing change for my backside. With my George Winston songbook propped up in front of me, I flung my fingers onto the dusty keys and jumped into a unique rendition of Pachelbel Kanon. I doubt Winston or Pachelbel would have recognized the piece, but I could sense the joy of the keyboard as it belted out notes. And my heart was glad to be playing this instrument I love.

But it has been a battle, this love of piano. About once a decade, I launch into lessons with new hopes and expectations. But it is work. I want to be good right away and I’m not. I want to get good with practice, but that doesn’t seem to happen either. So I quit – because I am busy or can’t afford it or don’t have time to practice. But that is all b.s. I quit because I am fearful and lazy.

It is not just piano either. I make declarations of all sorts of interests and passions, identifying with them and spending money on tools to learn them. But the moment I hit a bump – heck, the moment I anticipate the possibility of a bump – I run away as if being chased by ravenous beasts with gleaming eyes, matted fur, and discolored drool dripping from large, exposed fangs. Or I just pretend not to care anymore. A passing phase, you know?

There is an entire shelf in my bedroom dedicated to books on learning French and Spanish. It may lead one to think that I’m fluent, or at least conversational, in one or both of these languages. Don’t be fooled; I’m not. I know bits of each, but instead of investing in doing the hard work of learning more, I binge on words I already know, intoxicating myself with the foreign sounds or the shape of my mouth as they dance out. I indulge in pretend conversations that are completely meaningless because I don’t know enough words or grammar to speak a whole sentence.

It’s not so different from the way I play piano; constantly returning to the parts that please my fingers and ears, skipping by the ones that require any kind of exertion. There have been spurts of earnest effort, but I’m wondering if they were anything but short-lived experiments intended to prove the pointlessness of labor and let me off the hook. I can be pretty tricky.

The reality is that I want to be good without doing the work of getting there. But anyone who has excelled at anything has labored to get there, and has made sacrifices in pursuit of their passions. Even those pesky prodigies. I’m not saying ability isn’t a factor. It is. I won’t ever play like a concert pianist or speak like a French actress. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t play or speak. To the contrary, I should do all I can and play with all my heart.

“Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.” John 7:37-38

There are a lot of things swirling around in my mind but they’re being elusive little buggers. So I will start by saying that I moved the little white Ikea computer desk back into my room and I am, at this very moment, sitting in front of it typing. I can’t say why, but it’s exciting. Maybe because my back doesn’t get all achy from half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. Maybe because I’m less tempted to put on an old movie in the background. Maybe because it feels indulgent with candles (burning precariously close to my probably-flammable laptop) providing movement and atmosphere, and Pandora doling out significance through classical piano tunes. But I think it is mostly because it feels less haphazard and more intentional.

Oh, there it is. The direction I needed. That is exactly what I feel like is going on my life right now. A move toward intentionality. I haven’t been what you would call deliberate. I love those people; they are superheroes in my mind. But I have not been one of them. If my life were a dot-to-dot, it might look more like the chaotic image of an airline route map than the distinct picture of an airplane flying through fluffy clouds… or whatever it was intended it to be. But what I’m realizing with great excitement and anticipation is that my creator made me for a reason, for a distinct purpose, for his picture to emerge as the dots are getting connected. And that my job is to be deliberate about the things that he’s calling me to do right here and now, not what I think I should be doing or what other people are doing.

You know, I can trace back a lot of this process back to when my boss decided to do a “life assessment.” He was trying to sort through the wheat and chaff in his life and thought it would be helpful to lay everything out and rate it. This isn’t normally my sort of thing but, with some encouragement, I did one too. It was amazing to see how little time I was spending on things I find fulfilling. If you read my post a couple days ago, you know I love to walk. Well, I had pretty much stopped walking until I rated it a 10 on this assessment thing. I figured if it could rate that high on my happiness scale, I should really make some time for it. And I have. There were other things too, like writing and playing piano. Oh well for now on the piano, but hey look at me – I’m writing. And so my life of intentionality began.

As I continue this process – which really comes down to following his lead, dot by dot, step by step – I’m grasping the goodness, joy, ease, and inherent order in doing things his way. I feel like my toes are touching this strong and beautiful and scary current that is right in the middle of God’s spirit and heart and life. I can taste the freedom and adventure. Anticipating the emergence of the full picture, I am moving forward with a newfound discipline and intentionality, and trusting that he doesn’t put crap pictures in the activity book.

Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. Matthew 7:17

I was at a red light behind an old blue pickup truck today and noticed “You won’t get a lemon at Toyota of Orange” on the license plate holder.  Immediately, I launched into an enthusiastic mental rendition of the jingle, slightly off-key I think, complete with that special something on “orange.” I don’t think I’ve heard it in about 20 years, so it filled me with old school warmth. Those 9 words and happy tune repeated throughout the day like a song accidentally set on a loop.

The lemon now residing in my carpet fibers.

It turned out to be a perfect soundtrack to my day because a wackadoo piece of fruit growing on our tree seemed to sing “You won’t get a lemon on your lemon tree.”  That was a forced transition, I know.  But I really want to show you a picture of a lemon that was growing on our tree, and I just couldn’t make it work with some kind of parable about fruit gone bad. Believe me, I tried. Ironically, the lemon that was going to be my illustration for good fruit turned out to be kind of mushy and slightly rotten inside. I used it for lemon water anyway, in the big Baja Fresh cup Cole and I fight over, which I promptly dumped on the carpet in my bedroom.  I sopped it up but not very well, and since I remember using lemon to lighten my hair, I’m sure there will be a huge bleach splotch when the sun hits it.

I’m sure that all means something, but I’m just not feeling the “seeds that fell on good soil and rocky soil” and all that. Anyway, we have had mutant lemons in the past, and then the tree seemed to “right” itself, giving us some decent lemons that work well for stevia-sweetened lemonade and a good many other things. But it seems to have gone to the dark side again, producing fruit that reminds me of creatures from the Alien sequel I regretfully snuck into at 13. I mean, these things have fingers and tentacles and objects emerging from their innards. Without further ado, the evil lemon…

Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.  ~Raymond Inmon

Some people were made to run. I love their energetic enthusiasm and sometimes think I would like to be a runner. But I was made to walk. It is a time of unsurpassed peace when all the parts of me come together in perfect unity. Nature, solitude, God, movement, combined in a soothing rhythm. My arms swing forward and back, catching my eye before leaving my sight and arriving again. My feet meet the surface, press forward, and leave, translating texture to sound over and over in a thousand variations, as familiar and unique as a fingerprint.

I wander through my neighborhood, planting my face in roses to find the sweetest one, sometimes small and hidden. I say hi to neighbors I don’t really know and pet their happy dogs. I slow my pace to see sidewalk chalk creations and smile warmly, enjoying childhood for a moment. I hold my favorite water bottle, the one I save for walking, and listen to the water gently sloshing around.

I round the corner and head down the hill that begs for bike rides. I can almost feel the rush of wind on my face. I pass the house with the shiny white fence and the giant wind chimes hanging proudly from the second story. I look on the side of the road for the dandelions I will pick for my turtles on the way home.

At the end of this road is my trail. I have no idea where it starts but I know where it ends. Mostly I go to the bridge that crosses the riverbed and turn to head home. But today, when I set out, I know I will take it all the way. There are days that call for a journey, not a walk, and it is one of those days.  I feel glad.

When I step onto the trail, I breathe deeply and take it in. People ride by on bikes. It is Sunday so many are out, although not so many as in summer. Some go by in great herds, stampeding with speed and force. Some travel in leisure with dogs in their baskets or surfboards by their side. Recumbent bikes spin by with colorful flags trailing joyfully like kites. A man with a pink mohawk atop his helmet comes my way; one in a pumpkin t-shirt heads the other way. It is Halloween; I’d forgotten. Fragments of conversations fly loudly above the whirring of the wheels, leaving the context unknown, the characters only partly revealed.

Runners pass me by. Runners with iPods. Runners with kids. Runners with dogs. Walkers are out too, mostly with friends, engaged in discussion. The bikers and runners and walkers and I, we exchange smiles and hellos because we share this path, this day.

There are homeless people who share this day too. I hear movement in the darkness under the bridge. I walk by two grown people, dirty and drunk. I smile but feel sad. A woman is pushing a shopping cart, her belongings neatly organized. Her feet are swollen, her face is kind. She looks to be on a great pilgrimage, plodding along slowly and surely. I want to know her.

Out here, there is no striving to sort my thoughts. Some rise to the surface, some fall. Each will find its perfect place as I move and listen. My senses are full, my heart is open. I pray but not like other times. It is easy, unforced.

I hear a cheery voice with a slight Hispanic accent behind me saying, “only 3.1 miles.” He laughs with surprising brightness and hilarity, like a real santa, and repeats, “only 3.1 miles.” I take it in and savor it. A moment later, he flies by with two others. One loses his balances and slams into the fence three feet in front of me. His bike slides sideways and he is thrown on the pavement. He writhes in pain and groans, this middle-aged man with sparse white hair, lying beside the pieces of his sporty yellow sunglasses.

I stand helplessly by his head. His companions hear the commotion and turn around. I pause for a moment, like I do when I hit my funny bone, hoping it will pass. But he continues to squirm, spitting out mild obscenities and broken sentences. I want to pray and heal him in that moment or give magic balm like Lucy does in Narnia, but all I do is offer to call an ambulance. His friends are here, thank God, and he says, “Shit Jim it hurts. My hip it hurts.” I look worried. The man with the jolly laugh looks up with a smile and says, “these things happen.” I swear he is an angel.

Others have also stopped to help, this community we are, but we all just stand there looking on. The man finally gets to his feet through gritted teeth. He nearly topples but manages to stay upright by leaning against his friend and the fence. I offer again to call someone, but I know I’m not needed. His friends have it under control. I walk away and pray.

I cross the bridge, the one with the wooden slats that sometimes rock under the weight of bikes. Thu-thump-thu-thump-thu-thump. I love the sound. But today the wood must have expanded because it is tight and quiet. I get to the other side where the trail picks up, the part with the dirt on the side, where I add my footprints to countless others. I move on, listening to the birds, gaining distance, anticipating the rest of my journey.

I hear the man with the jolly laugh. I look up to see the roundish, brown form in shiny black cycling clothes on a bike beside me. He slows to thank me for my kindness with a warmth I could drink. He is alone. I ask if the man is okay. He assures me that he is. I am fascinated by this angel, and want to know him. He continues on.

I notice the water in the channel getting deeper and my excitement grows. At last, I glimpse what I have been waiting for – waves of the brightest white tumbling forward. In a few minutes, I find myself on the soft sand, before the sea I love. I walk close to the shore and breathe deeply. Everything is sparkling. The wind is wet. My thoughts grow quiet and all is well with my soul.

I watch the surfers with admiration. I’m amazed at their ease. I’ve tried it, and it feels awkward and difficult. I watch the energetic people on the other side of the channel, playing with dogs who all seem to love the water. I watch the way the ocean moves and I see other people watching it. I look down the beach toward the pier and remember Cole walking all 7 miles barefoot, when he caught up with me one day for an impromptu adventure. I remember the day I made him ride bikes there with me, the terrible windy day his bike broke midway, and he had to ride 40 embarrassing blocks on my bike… with me, the boogie board, the backpack chair, the cooler, and the towels. I couldn’t stop laughing; he was not amused. I want him here this day.

I walk further down the beach, past the foursome playing volleyball, the lifeguard truck sitting in the sand, the two surfers showering the salt off their bodies and boards. I stand for several minutes in front of the water. I’m tempted to keep walking, as far as my legs will carry me, and call for a ride at the end. But part of my journey is the long walk home. So I turn around and head back, hungry and a little sore. The anticipation is gone and my thoughts are all sorted. The lively pathway now seems deserted. I walk quietly, wishing the miles away. I pass the woman with the shopping cart and say hi. She returns a gentle smile. I imagine myself walking slowly alongside her and sharing in her pilgrimage. But instead I press on and arrive home, my body spent and my journey complete.