Our Unseen Companion

A glance at the calendar on my desk reveals that it is almost time to turn the page to leave the tearful month of January 2021 behind.  Tears have flowed at the sad news of old friends who died too young as a result of Covid 19, from the sad sight of watching our nation’s near miss as home grown terrorists threatened to topple democracy, and while inspired by the words of a young, black poet reminding us of our call to “be light.”  The multicolored words written on the calendar outline the activities of the month now about to pass: mornings spent carting wood for the fire I begin and end each day watching; afternoons putting one foot in front of the other in snowshoes or on the treadmill; a ZOOM meeting here, a hardware store run there, and a last minute opportunity to drive two hours to receive a Covid vaccination. Missing from January’s scribbling is the week I used to spend around a table in Florida swapping insights and stories with a group cherished friends committed to become better preachers.

 I missed the routine of those getaway days which began with an early morning walk on a stretch of a Gulf Coast beach.  With my Homiletical Feast roommate still fast asleep, I quietly stole away, walked out the BridgeWalk Resort’s driveway, crossed the street, and headed to the   beach access between the Moose Club and a beachfront condo complex. Once on the beach I normally headed north toward a huge tree house about half an hour away, where I turned around to retrace my steps.  The sun rose over the mainland behind me as I made my way up the beach.  On the return trip I’d put on my shades as its light began to top the Palm trees.

 The amazing thing about that walk was that it was different every year.  Some years the beach was so narrow I had to climb on the rocks that protect a restaurant patio at high tide to make it by.  Other years the sand was at least 50 yards wide between those rocks and the gentle breakers of the Gulf of Mexico.  Most of the houses, condos, motels, and restaurants remain the same. But here and there an old, squat bungalow was being replaced by a three story beach house built on pilings or a brick pass through garage for those times when the Gulf and the bay behind Anna Maria Island meet during a hurricane. 

Not only was the beach different year to year. It was rarely the same one day to the next. One year on my Monday walk there were no shells to be seen during my three mile round trip.  On Tuesday, the tides and the wind-whipped waves had scalloped the beach and revealed shell beds here and there.  By Thursday, there were vast expanses of shells exposed.  On Friday you could trace the high tide line by the sea grass that lay up and down the beach like a rope line. Some days you wouldn’t see a single boat.  The next there might be a line of fishermen heading out of the cut between Anna Maria Island and Long Boat Key. One day there were Pelicans aplenty, the next none to be seen.  The number of species of birds I encountered is endless.  Over the years I was treated to the sight of Dolphins swimming by.

The beach walk was not a solitary affair.  On Monday, Martin Luther King, Jr.’s holiday, there were little ones out on the beach with parents and grandparents.  There were older couples walking hand in hand. Always there were joggers that pass in both directions, and shell collectors with plastic bags or buckets. Sometimes I would spot the familiar hat or distinctive gait of one of our merry band walking the opposite way.  Because I hit the beach at the same time every morning, there were regulars to greet with a wave or a nod: the old man trudging along with a pair of ski poles; the three ladies who were always gabbing away; the solitary fisherman casting a line into the Gulf.

The look on each face reminded me that each one on the beach had their own stories to tell of how the day before had gone…a fight with a spouse or child, a promotion at work, a fitful night’s sleep, a lovely thank you note from a recent visitor, a close encounter on the Tamiami Trail.  Each one had hopes for what the new day migtt bring…a good report from the doctor, help offered to someone packing up their mother’s things, the arrival of family to visit, the dreaded strategy meeting at work, the weekly card game with the neighbors.  Aware of my own hopes and fears about the day ahead, or what might be going on back in Pennsylvania, the walk became a time to follow the advice of the old hymn and “take it to the Lord in prayer.” My prayer was that I and all my beach companions and Scripture studying mates might greet the day with the assurance that the one welcomed at Christmas as “Immanuel” had been, is, and will continue to be “God-With-Us” here and now, now and always. As I prepare to turn the calendar page to February, that is again my prayer for us all.