Lawn mower: only thought in my head. The joys of renting a room from a family too busy to respect the writing process. I abandon those two sentences to help start it up.  The daughter finishes quickly after that.  “Did I do good?” she asks her stepfather?

It was her first time. The stakes were low.  Nobody expects excellence when you’re a beginner, like me and Summer Sarah, my classic ukulele. Or do they?

Oh, the blessed absence of man’s impositions eases me.  It isn’t silence that replaced the mower’s roar, not even crickets yet, just birds, distant barking in four disparate pitches, and the occasional engine blocks away.  I wish I could think quickly enough to account for the thirty minutes lost to an apparently urgent lawncare need; I’ve almost accepted we won’t make it to sunset at Fort Monroe beach tonight. 

It calls to me as equally in moments of despair as ones of hope.  I head out there almost every night, park in the same spot, strap on my ukulele, grab my beach chair, and walk on to my beach.  After this past weekend, I can effectively claim it.  It seems I’ve started collecting people there. 

On weeknights, I go alone.  At first, it was to practice familiar sing-alongs like You Are My Sunshine or Brown Eyed Girl.  Then chord progressions came out of my finger tips and words came out of my lips, spilling over into a hungry ocean that devoured my verse and asked for a chorus. 

I started “Imperfect Harmony” on Sunday night, returned to the sand Monday, and the rest of the verses came together.  Just as patrol gave the ten-minute warning on Wednesday night, two women approached me and asked, in broken English, to take a video of me playing my little guitar.  They were relieved when I replied in Spanish. 

I played the song, and Raquel from Costa Rica recorded it on her phone.  I forgot to be self-conscious of my belly fat and forehead wrinkles for two and a half minutes.  They asked how many years I’d been playing.  I laughed, knowing five weeks didn’t make me any good yet.  Rosa from Mexico seemed to catch the emotions even in English.  I tried translating the lyrics afterward, but they lost some effect.

We exchanged numbers, and though I hadn’t found my friend Ray from the previous Sunday, God seemed to be answering my song’s prayer for “more than music for my company” in divine appointments outside the scope of my intent to marry. 

Late Saturday morning after laundry and updating my portfolio, I joined some of my friends who were already set up on my beach, Summer Sarah in tow, of course.  I found Ray on a walk just a shell’s throw from our patch of shore, and he moved over to join us with his six-string guitar.  We had live entertainment until dinnertime. 

Meanwhile, Rosa from Mexico joined us.  She enjoyed practicing her English with the group and liked Ray’s music.  Shortly after, my Bumble date arrived.  We were supposed to have a second date in Virginia Beach, but when he saw a photo of my afternoon, he offered to join us instead.  What started as four friends had become seven.  And just when I was playing my song for the group, Rolando from Cuba (and Planet Fitness) arrived. 

My Bumble date visibly rebuffed.  Outside of the gym, Rolando looked so different.  His dark skin contrasted against the blue and white sky.  When he took off his shirt, I realized he probably needs someone to talk to while he exercises more than he actually needs to go to a gym. 

I stayed until sunset on Saturday night, like always.  There wouldn’t be a third date with Bumble.  There might be a first date with Rolando.  But I honestly wasn’t thinking about dating when the sun set on my Fort Monroe Beach.  Music had literally made my world get bigger.  It was obvious to me God was giving me company in spades.  

On Sunday afternoon, I returned solo.  It was a perfect beach day.  My song was stuck inside my head, so I played it, walking up and down the shore between the jetties.  As the hours waned, I turned my back to the ocean and set my chair in the sun.  A man with earbuds under a shade canopy stared at nothing in particular, far from the water. 

I wasn’t alone for long.  Orion the dentist joined me for a spell.  He wanted to hear my song.  After all the practice, the words came out playfully.  The man in the shade took out one earbud first, then the other.  He walked over to us and said, “I’ve got my headphones off now.  Would you play some more?”

I don’t know exactly what a promotor is, but Adrian asked for my business card.  Why would I have one at the beach?  Because that morning, I was cleaning in my room, found them, considered how dirty my beach bag can get, and thought, “You just need one!” so I slipped one in.  That’s not coincidence.  That’s God. 

When he asked about artist inspirations, I had nothing.  Orion chimed in, “God’s her inspiration.  And the beach.  She wrote that here.” 

It turns out, I don’t have to have incredible skills on the ukulele itself to write a catchy sing-along.  I don’t know what my sound is.  Nothing I wrote on the piano sounds like this.  Maybe folk?  Night after night, people stop to listen to this sweet sound on four strings that sing. Sometimes, they post me to social media, and most times, I forget to be self-conscious.  Summer Sarah photographs so well. 

When Orion left me, it happened again.  Chords.  Progression.  A verse bubbled out of me.  Then maybe a refrain.  The ocean wrote it and received it. 

Raquel from Costa Rica and Omari from work joined me for the sunset.  They like to listen to me play, even false chords on a half-written tune waiting to be finished.  With all the Latino friends I’m picking up, I might need to write a Spanish song next time. 

But first, I had to finish this one. Last night, it was easy to find a spot out of earshot of the next beachgoer, and I asked God to give me the rest of the song.  I walked a bit, then words came.  I quickened my pace to get to my journal before they left me.  It’s done save for a title, and I hummed it all day long.

Absent any hint of self-consciousness, I recorded a video of myself playing last night and sent it to a couple friends who live far away and asked to hear.  Something magical happened when that ukulele found my hands… and I’m happy being alone with myself.

Six weeks with Summer Sarah, and dare I say, I feel complete.  Our music keeps me right with God.  He paints the sunset in different designs to inspire me each night.  Somewhere in the consecutive sunsets strung together, doubt about the future turned to hope. 

The tide recedes and leaves me in peace, clinging to God’s promises and answered prayers.