The Palma and Crawford children took their traditional first day photos yesterday; they left for school, and I left for Greenville.  By the time they wrapped their days, I was having dinner with my eldest brother’s family.

In case you’re wondering, no second thoughts.  Turns out, summer doesn’t stop when teachers start school. 

The forecast said rain, so while I needed to wrap up one dental appointment back on my old stomping ground, I aimed not to miss two consecutive sunsets at Fort Monroe beach.  Last night, I appreciated the variations inside a sunset with southern charm against a backdrop of a Tuscan village in suburban South Carolina. 

Then today, by the time my nieces and nephews were starting their second day class routine, I was knocking out a couple remade crowns and headed back home to Hampton.  Sixteen hours round trip, and I know I always say this, but I’m really trying to keep this short for us all tonight.

Yet, the sound of taco Tuesday and Ginny and Josie’s recap of their classes at Kilgore and Kecoughtan respectively drew me inside.  It’s not the first time I’ve abandoned my writing in favor of some actual face time with my God nieces, but I realized – a most sobering thought – that this is my last Tuesday night writing on their back patio.

As such, it would be the last time to sneak inside and catch up on the events of their day, a routine I’ve come to enjoy in the past three months here.  Since I taught in both their schools, I had faces, personalities, and rooms to match with stories. 

Though my heart warmed at the exciting adventures all my nieces and nephews will embark on this year at those two schools, there is no tug back to either of those buildings for me.  When my teacher friends went through the back-to-school angst, I felt relief.  When the kids started this week without me, I felt free.  This year, this season, I needed to experience life outside of classroom walls.

I listened to the stories of the first days of school, then I attempted retreat to my writing abode outside.  Seeing how tired I was, Josie said she wouldn’t tell anyone if I just waited until Wednesday to post my blog.  Ginny assessed my reaction, knew I was determined to finish what I started, and opted for a different approach. 

“Your readers are waiting for you, Laura Joy.” 

I giggled, then stopped when her expression told me she was serious.  I made a joke about the handful of people that might refer to, then quickly rallied. 

“You know, Ginny, you’re right.  Even if there’s just one person looking forward to reading my blog tonight, I want to deliver on it.”

I didn’t realize my oldest brother read my blogs faithfully until last night; there were so many things I didn’t have to catch him up on in my world since moving back to Hampton.  There are people on the other side of the words that I’m typing – reading them, decoding them, giving them meaning.  I never know who exactly needs to hear a sentence that I penned, one she couldn’t articulate, one he couldn’t record.

I found myself sharing about a woman I’d met last weekend at the beach.  I was doing my uke walk between jetties, plucking out a new tune, and a tall, thin woman with beach crazy hair stopped me.  She’d seen me pass by earlier, and she just knew why I was out here. 

“Why, exactly,” I asked the flower child. 

“To open energy portals!” she exclaimed before explaining in detail. 

As hard to follow as she was, having had particularly “trippy day” in her words, I grasped her general meaning.  It was as though she’d attempted to explain the phenomenon that happens at the beach for me every sunset. 

She thought that the song I was writing was opening an energy portal.  That song was a prayer, the lyrics sprawled out in the sand as I walked: “Tomorrow’s always fresh with no mistakes in it just yet, they say / maybe I could sleep if I could just embrace the grace that’s new with every day.”  It was in progress.

I walk the beach at Fort Monroe playing my ukulele, and God meets me there. I get inspired and write songs.  I could see Him at the center of a hippy’s energy portal, and who knows?  Maybe tripping on mushrooms made her more attuned.  She wouldn’t be the first to tell me she felt Jesus in one of my songs. 

Seven songs in four weeks.  I know what I was doing the last sixteen Augusts of my life, but I firmly conclude that 2023 was the best August of my life. I didn’t meet a man… well, I met a dozen men, just not one that can hold a candle to the belated Joshua.  For a woman like me who’s been loved well, settling on match would dishonor the dead. 

It had been too long since I’d had a phone call with Josh’s mom, Marci.  We’d both been busy with competing summer plans, but I’ll admit there was a part of me that wondered if my dating would be hard for her.  The more days that had passed, the more I knew we had missed in each other’s lives. 

I called Marci on my drive today, wondering if she’d be free to take my call.  Three hours and two states later, it was as though I’d just had the most refreshing visit with a friend over a glass of sweet tea.  Like David, she’s been faithfully checking my blog; she likes reading about my life, even the dating debacles, and she knew about writing songs at the beach with Summer Sarah, my ukulele. 

She asked me what I’d blog about tonight.  I told her I needed an hour at the beach to unwind after the drive, and then hopefully, I’d know.  I snapped her a picture as soon as my toes were in the sand again.  

I played the new song I’d told Marci about earlier as I walked from jetty to jetty, calm seas tonight.  I remembered the woman and the energy portals and thought about how far I’d been from that spot and how long to get back to it again for me in just a few days’ journey, sixteen hours of driving.    

God exists everywhere, please don’t misunderstand me.  He’s in the Tuscan Greenville sunset from last night.  He’s in the house I was renting last month and the one I’m renting next month.  He’s at schools like Kecoughtan with Josie and Kilgore with Ginny, J.J., Kat, and Tessa. 

But when I go to Fort Monroe, I go to meet Him there.  That’s the difference.  It’s not a limitation of the Lord to work and move in my life.  No, we must set aside our preoccupations and go expecting He will order the steps.  There will be no lasting footprint of any man who walked beside me on that beach this summer.  God gave me Summer Sarah, and her shadow is the perfect complement to my silhouette.

But for the beach to be this still, this quiet, this pensive… all my friends and family had to let summer go.  I seized and savored this August.  Summer hasn’t ended yet for me.    

No second thoughts.  This writer’s inspired.  And if you’re that one person looking forward to this blog post tonight, give it a “Like,” and I’ll thank Ginny for you.