So we made it. We made it the beach. And from now until the 12th I pledge to write about every day here, to show you our beautiful little family.
Dave and I left at three in the morning to pick up Brandon for the 11-hour drive. What a good man Dave is - the only break he got was a 90-minute window in Virginia before I quickly wussed out and became too tired to drive. We passed several cars along the way that we could tell were headed to The Beach, even if we didn't know who they were. After all, there are at least a dozen other Xenos homechurches each of 30 or more people going the same way to the same place, so we're bound to encounter a few. Through the dark farms in Ohio and tumbling into the Appalachian hills of West Virginia, getting lost in Virginia clouds and then emerging upon the pines and sandy knolls of North Carolina. Passing through Wilmington, passing the Food Lion, passing the gift shops, to get to the bridge. That bridge is our one way onto our beach; it curves up a hundred feet in the air over the small marina, and it's there Brandon gets his first glance ever of the row of beach houses. This is my fourth time here and it's still a beautiful sight.
Oh, the fruits of our anticipation. We've all been counting down all summer long for this trip together. And it's a long drive down the narrow strip of beach houses: house addresses start in the 100s at the bridge and your destination isn't until at least the 900s, sometimes into the 2,000s if you're unlucky enough. Until we're there, at a beautiful house, piling in our luggage in canvas avalanches. The first night is a flurry of settling: claiming beds, buying groceries at the local people-choked grocery, unpacking bathroom supplies, figuring out who's arrived and who's still forthcoming, maybe a shower if you're lucky enough.
Exhausted, we trickle over to the back porch of whichever house is on the beach and spend the evening together in a post-road-trip stupor. This year is the boys' turn to overlook the ocean; the girls' house is a block farther and across the street. We pull up wind-beaten rockers and perch on banisters, filling our greedy eyes with the sight of sand and dune and wave.
Most cannot resist the pull of the Atlantic, so girls don bikinis and boys lose their shirts and go tearing across the walkway to the ocean. The feel, the feel of those waves after so much time hyping it up to each other. We play in the waves like children, 20-something-year-olds sinking into the sand and kicking spray at each other as the setting sun splashes across our backs. Nothing but joy, and freedom.
As night comes, the smokers pull out their crumpled cigarette packs and cow-patterned lighters. Brandon even brought his hookah this year, and a supply of fruit-flavored coals to share. That ornate pipe tastes incredible passed around a circle of friends to the sound and salt smell of the ocean. We talk about the trip down, how good it is to just spend some time away together, and attempt to nail down times during the week to hang out with each other. So far, I'm planning on building a sandcastle with Dorian, having lunch with Colin on Thursday, spending silent reading time with Andrew, cramming in Dave and Pat and Tammy and Daina, and then a whole lot of walks on the beach with a whole lot of other people. I love them all and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I won't be sharing a bed with my man tonight, or for any of the nights down here. It'll be like living in the ministry house again, only now with some who are too old or too young for me to have roomed with before. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to get up early and make myself a cup of hot tea and sit on the porch. Mornings and evenings here get extra cool because of the sea, and the air feels sweet and clean. I hope that means I'll hear God's voice with an ocean air crispness.
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