Set the scene: Friday night, post Fort Monroe Sunset, Mama Rosa’s.  “Yeah, this booth is good,” I tell the hostess, smiling. “I got this booth on my last three first dates here.”  

She chuckles, recommends the special: Chicken Vodka Penne Pizza, a perfect marriage of my two favorite Italian dishes there.  Five stars.  My Egyptian date?  One, at best.

And that is why I invite my dates to join me at Fort Monroe beach, typically when I’m already planning to be there, and if it goes well, let it meander to Phoebus for my three go-to comfort food restaurants… actually, I was at the beach the past eleven days at some point, and I made it to El Diablo for chorizo tacos, Stuft for beef bulgogi egg rolls, and Mama Rosa’s for pizza, too.

Honestly, the beach companions God brings have so widened my perception of world that I care less about the success of an impending date night.  Unattached from a man long enough, and I find myself claiming lots of favorite things that are, uniquely, mine.  Raised in Syracuse, New York, grown in Nashville, Tennessee, and the beach is somehow in my blood.  That, I claim first.

Not like the Buffalo Bills which is powered by my eldest brother’s inspired fandom.  Not like Honda Si’s lingering from my ex-husband’s obsession.  Not like the same sweaters in different colors ordered and delivered with a sweet note from my mother that I wear all winter long.

In the summer, give me sandals and a sundress.  I like braids and flowers, and if you want my favorite color palette, open one of my beach sunset photos in Photoshop Beta, and then use the eye-dropper tool.  Capture the shades of ivory, blue, green, and pinks, subtle hues that define my existence in the waning days of August. 

They are the colors of a wedding that didn’t happen five years ago in the Outer Banks.  I claim them still; they were, even then, inspired by my Fort Monroe beach.  I can fit the gown I haven’t gotten to wear yet.  Maybe that will be reclaimed, but not in this blog post. 

My Bumble date moved here on his own when he was in his early twenties without knowing English.  After a decade, he converses well, and he was interesting enough to move from a sunset on the boardwalk playing songs on my ukulele to a restaurant. 

Conversation over dinner was likewise fascinating.  He shared about how it was difficult growing up in Cairo being a Christian.  I tried to pay for my half of the bill, but he outreached me.  He walked me to my car. The attempted kiss reminded me of my niece Katarina when she was an infant, just an open mouth coming at you.

I sidestepped him and retreated inside my car in record time, grateful for the practice of never leaving a table without my keys in my hand already, day or night.   He stepped into the frame of the doorway before I could close it.  Then, gesturing down beneath his belt, he said it. 

“You’re just going to leave me like this?” 

I blurted out, “Yeah, I am,” continued to laugh as I closed the door; he stood there dumbfounded as I backed up. 

Assertiveness cuts through any language barriers, I’m confident, as I heard him shout after me, “Did you really just say that?”  

Yes, I did. And because of that exchange, I didn’t just write one song last week at the beach.  God gave me three.  The first was about accepting finality, “Not All Good Things Stay.”  The second came Saturday morning in all of forty minutes on the sand, thinking on my companion for the prior night’s sunset: “Be a Better Man”.  It flirts with PG-13 ratings, a clear departure from my soothing beach tunes. 

In each song I studied and practiced, I found a voice, and each song I write reflects elements of those songs that most define me, like the color pallet of the ocean backdrop every night at Fort Monroe.  I assert my voice in lyrics, but the songs themselves contain features of real life, real people, and real musical inspirations. 

At church Sunday morning, Pastor Mike talked about how intimacy with God can be observed when we see God in what’s around us.  He began talking about going to the beach to savor the sunrises.  With each detail he added, I could see my mirroring sunsets there, the sum of them building to an intimacy with God I just haven’t known before. 

That afternoon back at my patch of sand, a Turkish man in his late twenties gave me a lot of attention.  We spoke about music.  A guitarist, he asked to play Summer Sarah.  I hesitantly handed my ukulele over, concerned about his wet, hairy chest.  I had a sense though, as he moved toward overt flirtation, that he was probably not the guy for me. 

To test it out, I played the new song.  Some of the nuances in the unfinished suggested rhymes (reminiscent of the Miss Susie hand clap song) had to be explained, and after recovering from laughter, he simply said, “I’m not a better man, not the guy for you.” 

I giggled as I walked away.  That song was as effective as messaging potential dates with: “I’m not interested in a hookup, just to save us both some time.”  Three for three unmatched with me immediately.  He’d have to be a better man, like my song says. 

Then, I was so inspired I wrote a third song… about wildfires in Maui and hurricanes and earthquakes, a heartbreakingly dissonant composition my soul was aching to write, finding a voice to sing about tragedy, and I titled it “Unspoken Prayers.”

A couple on the boardwalk called me over to play for them soon after.  After a verse, the young man asked if I used to teach at Kecoughtan. It was a former student, all grown up.  I’ve seen three kids I’ve taught this past week and even bumped into a former coworker.  Every day, I meet strangers there on the shore, but I also get reconnected with people from the past. 

Paster Mike mentioned liking how the ocean makes him feel small but a part of everything.  I could relate.  That night watching the sunset, I felt like the word he was illustrating that morning was connectedness.  God is all and in all.  We are, all of us, His creation.  At the beach, I feel that. 

Then Monday morning came, and it was back to work, only I started a new job last week.  It’s not at Fort Monroe, but it’s a close second, and a striking contrast to the warehouse I was working in before.  My boss, semi-retired, is running remaining operations from his estate on a lake overlooking the James River. 

Every day, it’s something different, and if I run out of tasks for that day, I wash the endless windows in the lake house, savoring every heron, duck, or deer that comes out of hiding to delight me while I work. In this new job, I see God all around me, from my boss to my supervisor to a dream lake house office location. 

This summer at the beach has prompted more than just songs on a ukulele… there are a couple of books brewing, and I’ll keep you posted.  It’s been a summer of discovering myself beyond the scope of being a teacher and embracing the calling to write for a living, even if it’s just for a season. 

Lessons I learned this week on the ukulele: Not all good things stay.  You’ll have to be a better man to date me.  Many things can be destroyed, but unspoken prayers aren’t one of them.  Oh, and Mama Rosa’s and Fort Monroe Beach get five stars.