Not the most gorgeous shade of blue, not the whitest sand this globe has to offer, but it’s “my ocean,” “my sand” and it’s “my little beach house.”
As if preparing itself for “blogdom” or an inanimate, analogical character in a book, my little beach house is named, The Four Seasons. Hidden between The Ritz, a new stately house, with its fresh yellow paint, white columns, and heated pool, and another brand-spanking new trendy-green getaway, my little beach house and another pre-hurricane place (seemingly-abandoned gray thing on stilts), rest. The Four Seasons’ blue-gray paint is beginning to chip again. Its boardwalk was never fully rebuilt after Hugo. She’s a humble thing. My grandmother used to call her a “cottage.” That she is, a cottage by the Garden City, South Carolina sea.
As if preparing itself for “blogdom” or an inanimate, analogical character in a book, my little beach house is named, The Four Seasons. Hidden between The Ritz, a new stately house, with its fresh yellow paint, white columns, and heated pool, and another brand-spanking new trendy-green getaway, my little beach house and another pre-hurricane place (seemingly-abandoned gray thing on stilts), rest. The Four Seasons’ blue-gray paint is beginning to chip again. Its boardwalk was never fully rebuilt after Hugo. She’s a humble thing. My grandmother used to call her a “cottage.” That she is, a cottage by the Garden City, South Carolina sea.
The view of the ocean out the large picture window has changed. It was shockingly strange after Hugo… a parking lot of sand, flat, straight out to the closer ocean. I was carried to that same plot of sand, where I ate and drooled its little grains. I toddled my way up there, crying over sandspurs. My mom let me bring my best little friends along, with our too cool walkmans and early-nineties shades. I remember going out past where I could touch in the ocean, floating on my back with my best-bud Melanie and talking. We made giant sand castles, buried each other countless times over the years. Melanie, my brother Brad, and so many other dear friends shared in all-day, sometimes blistering adventures. I’ve sat on that back porch and looked out at the reflection of the moon, year after year after year. I’ve talked and thought and made long phone calls, rocking away in the breezy evenings.
Now both of my children have drooled the sands of Garden City. They’ve danced in the surf.
A physical place of remembering, I remember how lavishly loved, I’ve been since before birth. I see the rich heritage of my mother’s parents, who purchased “the cottage.” My dear grandfather, his walk with our God – straight into Heaven. My mother and her unyielding strength in raising my brother and me. I see God’s plan for friendships, for heartache, for discipline. I see seasons of dancing-in-the-surf-kind-of joy, of fear, when the undertow felt mighty strong, of intense hurt, of being held so tight, with not a soul around. You just can’t help look at that sky, that sunrise, smell that air and not see Him. For me, on “my” sand this week, I was reminded overwhelmingly, of how tight His grip, His pursuit, His prepared plan, is on my life. I could choke on its weight. His love, resting upon me, straight up through my throat.
From heaven the LORD looks down and sees all mankind; from His dwelling place He watches all who live on earth – He who forms the hearts of all, who considers everything they do. Psalm 33:13-15
Praise Him that He sees me! That He sees you dear friend!!
But a speck on the shore, on a shore of many many many shores. He sees you. Close-up. Intensely.
Do you feel it?
May your unfailing love rest upon us, O LORD, even as we put our hope in You. (Ps. 33:22)
Belle’s brain operates on levels that surpass the average kindergartners’ and often, I’m pretty sure my own. Belle loves to create. She likes to hoard “treasures”, bits of paper, used boxes. She’s the one that announced, “You know, Mommy, I would really like to have a place of my own to create. A table in the corner of the living room would be lovely.”
