Last Day at the Beach

Tomorrow ends our month-long escape to the beach. We haven’t actually stayed here the entire month; I have been back at home twelve of the 28 days; Burt has been back twenty! However, we both have done exactly what we wanted to do. His trips home have involved checking on things at the farm (once a farmer, always a farmer), and our trips home together centered around the grandchildren. (I’m not complaining!)

 My time here alone has helped me refresh, refocus, and recalibrate. I’m going home with a sense of new direction. I’m resolved to finish my book for our daughters-in-law, and for any other young mothers who wish to read it. I’m also going to write a book for our sons...a bit more personal to them. It’s amazing how, in reading my journals over the years, I see how much I’ve forgotten. And yet...how much I remember. I came across something I wrote several years ago when our boys were growing up, and just because I enjoyed it, I’m printing it. So here goes:

       It’s a perfect morning for sleeping. The bedroom is cool and I’ve found the warm cozy spot as I snuggle under the covers. There is just enough weight at my left side to give me something to nestle against. The smell of coffee comes wafting by me and the sound of a bird’s cheep, cheep is somewhere in the nether land of my dreams. It’s a late Fall morning…I hear the sound of a pick-up truck cranking. I stretch.
      As I force my arm over my head I realize how cold the room actually is and I gradually start to recognize that I what I don’t hear is the usual heat pump noise. I also am becoming aware that I can’t roll over because the weight pressing next to me is a very wet- diapered three-year-old who is trying to get warm. Reality overtakes me as I see that the insistent cheeping is coming from the alarm that is set for 4:45 a.m. and the one responsible for that is driving off in his truck, heading to his deer stand. Furthermore, the reason for the chill is because the heat is not working.
       I’m almost coherent as I struggle against the weight of the covers and the sleeping bundle resting against me. I brace myself for the draft of cold air that is going to hit me as I rise to slap the alarm into silence. It is at that moment that I almost stumble and fall over the two sleeping children who have managed to sneak into our bedroom sometime in the night and set up camp on the floor beside our bed. The six-year-old and the four-year-old are almost indistinguishable from the mound of stuffed animals that are piled around their heads as they slumber in contentment. 
      The rest of the morning rolls over me like a tsunami. Bowls and glasses are everywhere, a pile of hunting gear is in the corner; binoculars, flashlights, caps, and gloves are covering the kitchen counter, and to my disbelief, it is lunchtime and everybody is hungry again! Thankfully, I have done something ahead of time, and I pull out from the refrigerator the pot of chili that was made the day before. By the time this meal is finished, there is not a single clean bowl left. There are saltine cracker crumbs covering the table, but the guys don’t notice because the next order of events is to get to the dove field for a bird shoot.
      I stand at the window and watch them, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, pile in the back of their dad’s pick-up truck, laughing and joking with each other. By this time, there are a few other dads and sons who have congregated in our front yard, and they leave together. The younger boys have elected to stay at home and play, content to have the basketball goal and the yard to themselves without the interference of the older ones. I return to the kitchen to address the disaster left in the wake of their invasion. 
     With the clean-up complete, I’m finally able to collapse in front of the fire and enjoy a few moments without interruption. As I sit, I can hear the sound of happy, healthy children along with the thump of the basketball and the grinding of riding toys’ sandy tires on the concrete driveway, and the pounding of feet as children chase each other around the outside of the house. 
      I know it won’t always be like this: a blend of mud-caked boots at the front door, footballs scattered on the lawn, strewn towels left from half-washed hands, shotgun shells scattered on the floor, shotgun pellets in the carpet, sometimes runny noses and wet beds, but always spontaneous hugs and aura of contentment.
     I’ll miss this one day...

MY FAVORITE PLACE

Today finds me at my second favorite place in the world (the first being the little piece of Paradise we call home): the BEACH. For years I’ve fantasized about spending a month at the beach during the winter. This year, when I found the perfect spot with great off-season rates, my sweet husband (who literally lives to make me happy...and yes, I do know how blessed I am) agreed to come. Many times I’ve had the urge to run away, to get free from exhausting circumstances, or just the challenges of the day’s demands, but this time it was different. This time I felt the unrelenting desire to come away to be alone with the Lord. If I were not married to a godly man who understands, it never could have happened.

I’m experiencing the magnificence of God’s presence as I sit on the small balcony of our condo, covered by the most beautiful blue sky. The strong winds of the past two days are gone, leaving only an occasional laconic wave in the fans of the palm trees.

I couldn’t sleep soundly last night, so I got out of bed at 4:30a.m., put on my headset and listened to worship music. I was so blessed. I felt like the voice of the Savior was whispering in my ear. This morning, He showed me what He wanted me to see.

On the road in front of the condo is a bike path, well used by all ages. I recognize a couple of joggers from earlier in the week. The cyclists are reveling in the beautiful weather and the soft breeze. All styles of bikes go by: narrow tire touring bkes, old-style cruisers, hybrids, even 3-wheelers.

Then I saw it: a tandem bike. In front was a little girl, probably about 10 years old.Wearing a bright pink wind breaker, blond hair waving beneath the bike helmet, she pedaled confidently. Behind her rode her father. His towering body loomed over hers, their strides in perfect sync. The little girl couldn’t see her dad behind her, but he was the force propelling the bike forward. In a flash, I saw what the Spirit was showing me. I was like the child on the bike, working my legs and enjoying my ride. Jesus was the Man behind me, providing the momentum and doing the work. For several hours I’ve comtemplated that picture. Riding my bike in tandem with Jesus.

I’m at the stage of life that causes me to look at the abilities of youth I’ve taken for granted: physical capabilities, years ahead to accomplish everything desired, assurance of bring equipped to handle all challenges. Now I was beginning to wonder if those things are slipping away from my grasp. There exist in their place some pains and discomfortants, some doubts about handing new challenges in life. The tandem bike is my sermon and my promise. Regardless of the situation, Jesus is promising me He’ll be the force behind me. I won’t see Him, but when the hill before me seems too steep to climb, I’ll make it, because His power will be the reason.