We are up before seven on vacation, but
nobody is complaining. Daddy and I got them up early- we are the
excited children, we are the ones who couldn't wait to get down to
the ocean early in the morning. We eat powdered donuts on an old
sheet at low tide.
People walk the beach, looking for
treasures. Perhaps they are walking slowly through memories.
Meanwhile, little boys eat quickly so
they can dig, run, and tease the waves. Daddy and I linger on the
old sheet, with coffee and open eyes. The ocean roars, and we sit in
comfortable silence. The sea and the sky are blue with a million
blues, and I am glad that I brought my watercolors.
But for now, I stay still, marveling at
the living artwork made by the hand of God. I watch those precious
little boy bodies playing in the surf. They scream when the waves
come, and I do not tell them to be quiet. Little legs cannot seem to
outrun the ocean; waves grab ankles, and a boy trips, laughing as he
spits salt water.
A woman smiles at me through wrinkles,
a smile rich with memories and understanding, a smile from a mother
to a mother. She keeps walking. She does not tell me to seize the
day, to enjoy every moment, and that they grow so quickly. I see her
slow steps, her sun-spotted skin, and the slight curve of her back as
she walks away. I hear the speech she did not give.
My husband hands me his glasses and
runs into the water with the boys. I observe his figure and smile.
Yes, I still like watching him play in the water. I remember before
kids, when I had to drag him in to play with me; when he was so in
love that he let me talk him into swimming in the rain. (Perhaps that
old blue bikini was a factor.) Now, my boys drag him, and he flings
one over his shoulder.
Fatherhood looks so good on him.
Florida is for romance: romance and
babies, and I smile thinking how these things are all tangled
together in this life we have been given. The blue bikini has been
packed away forever, but I do not grieve. My heart, life, and figure
are full. I embrace this season of fullness.*
I towel-dry sandy little boy bodies,
and as we pack up, I hand them things to carry. Even the littlest
will carry something, and he will insist on doing it by his “OWN
self.” Our family is growing up, growing out of things, into other
things.
While the boys stop to dig just one
more hole, an elderly man tells us about the sea turtles, and low
tide, and the best pizza place “just around the corner.” His
wife hides in her book, and I wonder if we will be like that someday.
I suddenly miss my grandpa.
When my arms no longer carry Mickey
Mouse towels and tiny sunglasses, of what will they be full?
Perhaps I'll wear an enormous sun hat,
and it will shade my workspace as I write and paint. Perhaps he will
have a tan bald head, and he will be reading his 3,000th book on his
Kindle. And nobody will be running after seagulls or digging for
crabs. And I'll be the only one drinking from my water bottle.
Unless there are grandkids, of course.
“I found a gold doubloon!” my son
yells, holding a seashell. “I'm going to use it to buy my very own
motorcycle!” He hands me another piece of God's living art, and I
almost try to explain how there are things of value that cannot be
exchanged for motorcycles... but I just ruffle his hair instead.
“Leave the seashells at the beach,
boys.” He drops the “doubloon” and grabs my hand without
looking back. I let him drag me through the broken shells, through
the sand, and up the stairs towards showers and naps.
I look back at the ocean, but he pulls
me on.
He's right, of course.
Carrying today with me will not keep me
full tomorrow.
Then, and now, fullness comes from
living with hands open before God who gives. To be sure, the sun
will still feel good on wrinkled skin, and sand on crooked toes.
And perhaps, God's living art is even more beautiful through aged
eyes.
*(Full disclosure: I deleted a few
pictures of myself, but only the ones that were totally
exaggerating.)