The Shoreline

We took them to the beach back in November of 2013. The twins were a year-and-change. Abe coming up on four. It was a hidden gem of a spot in Florida. But by the time our cross-country drive ended, it was dark. Like can’t-quite-see-the-ocean dark.

The second sand appeared, Simone, normally our bravest, was in our arms like a koala wrapped around a tree. Legs gripping like a grandma clutching a purse. Those feet were not touching that mess below. Meanwhile, Abe faceplanted. On purpose. With gusto. Like Christopher Columbus kissing the great American earth. It was a panic of delight as he rolled and reveled in splendor. As for Samuel, our strong, silent spirit — the one we’d catch looking off in the distance sometimes, out a window, watching the wind weave its way through the trees — this same Samuel, he tore off like a caged animal suddenly set free. And he went bowling straight for the blackness of endless water. No grand show of it. Just a mission. A Navy Seal with a determined spirit.

Over and over that week, the three of our children came in and out like the tide—varying degrees of enjoyment with this whole beach life. Simone wouldn’t touch the sand. Like…ever. But fell in love with the birds. Her eyes would light up as she watched them wind and whirl. Abe wouldn’t really get in the water, but became obsessed with shoveling in the sand. And then Samuel. He couldn’t have cared less about sand, but he would dart, by any means necessary, always toward the water. Wobble. Crawl. It didn’t matter. He was going in. And we constantly kept watch to keep this maniac alive!

And while that week will always be one of the great memories of our young family’s life, I couldn’t help but shake this desire in me for each of them to somehow enjoy all of it a little more wholeheartedly. To want their toes dipped in the water—to smile wide with curiosity and content.

Amy hosted a brunch at the house Saturday morning. Monkey Bread. Mimosas. Some sort of quiche thing. A fire in the oven. It sounded like a good story. Meanwhile, I packed up the kids. Water bottles. Towels. Fruit snacks. Changes of clothes. Sunscreen. Crap. Forgot the sunscreen. Too late now. We were on the road. Man-vanning our way to Sunset Beach. An area we hadn’t explored yet. And with friends and family rolling in through steady waves over the next couple months, we felt we needed to explore more options. And, most importantly, as a dad taking three kids out to play without mom, the beach is one heck of a giant (and free!) playground.

Lugging diaper bags and beach bags and three kids and hopeful expectations, we made it to the sand and I stood back and admired as all three of them took off in joy and release. No koalas. Just a pack of hungry-with-adventure wild animals.

We canvased the beach. Collected shells. Got sand in each other’s hair and eyes. Screamed. Said sorry. Drank water. Wiped sand off the water bottle. Drank more water. Wasted half a banana that no one would eat and then got dropped in the sand. Found a giant hole someone had dug and entertained the kids for a solid thirty minutes. Like new-toys-on-Christmas-morning entertained. Giant holes in the sand are apparently gold mines.

Picturesque. Perfect. A beautiful day. And then. Something happened.

I remember when we were leaving Florida back in November. We’d just pulled out of the condo and hit the road. Abe chimed in from the way, way back.

“When can we come back to Florida? I want to go to the beach again.”

Amy and I look at each other. Grateful our son enjoyed this vacation. A little sad that it probably wouldn’t be happening again anytime soon.

“Well bud, we live in Arkansas. And that’s kind of far from the beach. I’m not sure when we’ll be able to come back. But it sure was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. But maybe we could just live by the beach someday.”

“Maybe, bud. Maybe.”

Husband and wife look at each other. Grateful to have a son that dreams out loud. But completely cautious about entertaining those same dreams. Surely this famly won’t be living by a beach any time soon…

The three of them were done with the hole. I was out of tricks. Scanning the horizon for what’s next. And then I saw Samuel’s eyes beaming at mine. And looking toward the water. And back to me. It’s the same trick our dog Zeke does when he wants us to take him outside. Sometimes I like to pretend I have no idea what Zeke wants just to get him riled up. I couldn’t do the same to Sam. I’m not sure he’d handle it as well as a dog.

The thing is, since we moved out here, you know…by the beach…none of the kids have been that interested in the water itself. Abe had a spell. Simone got brave one day. And Samuel’s flirted. But all three have stayed solidly stuck in the sand. Maybe a bit fearful of all the waves.

And yet, here was Samuel, inviting me down to the water. Daring me to join him. And so I followed. We stood at the shoreline and let the tide touch our toes like wind in the trees.

He looked up at me with those eyes. A shimmering greater than the Pacific itself. We let it lap over us again.

I looked back up the beach to Abe and Simone. Big brother was ready to join. But sister wasn’t feeling it. He was trying to be really helpful. I know it. It’s just that when someone doesn’t want to come with you, a really limp arm while you’re dragging them is a pretty clear sign. I’ve gotta teach this to Abe. He’d basically made her appendage a leash. And this dog wasn’t walking.

Abe finally let go. And tore down to the water. Linking arms with Sam. Laughing like brothers. Laughing like brothers were meant to laugh.

And I made it up to my girl. Scooped her in my arms. Asked her, as sweetly and softly as I could, if she’d wanna put her feet in the water. And she said yes. The second sweetest agreement to a proposal in my life.

Within seconds, there the three of them were, dancing and laughing in concert like the trinity itself. Moving in and out, spinning in circles and brimming with beauty.

Cue the soundtrack, slow motion, happy beach montage moment.

California Board of Tourism: I think we just organically filmed your ad.

And then, as dad is entirely wrapped up in the pride of his children — there they are, running wild and free and living life to the full—enjoying the great spectrum of creation and soaking it all up—

Among all that and more, it hit me: “CRAP! They’re all three in the water! I’ve got to keep all three of these children alive at the same time!”

The soundtrack stopped. Grey hair formed like a Presidential tenure.

In the midst of their magnificent madness, I turned into a stressed-out sheepdog whose bark no one cared to listen to. I’d spent all this time hoping for them to grow into appreciative little beings that would lap up the wonder of the water. But when they finally did, I began sounding the alarm for “RETREAT!” Yet how do you pull back a really happy army?!

So maybe this is how it goes. The rest of life. Me hoping to see them take steps. Them resisting in varying degrees. Then one day, plunging in. Like a mutiny against contentment. And then me, dumb with disorder, scrambling that they’ll all somehow stay standing up right.

Here I was, both feet footed in the water, thinking I was the great possessor of courage. But when they finally steeled up to take a sip of it themselves, I found out I was more afraid than they ever were. The control had slipped through my hand like sand. And instead, all that was given back was three fearless, frolicking children.

And this.

The beginning of a new prayer: one aimed no longer at the shoreline. But instead at the ocean’s deep. Further up, further in. The end of the water’s end. The beginning of the great beyond.