All Those Things We Never Did

My husband and I recently celebrated our 30th in a year brimming with change. A few weeks after our anniversary, we arranged for a few days away at the prettiest beach, with soft, briny sands stretching for miles.

The sands were smooth, but the vacation itself was a bumpy start, as we have become a pair accustomed to working, not vacationing. Yes, our calendar is dotted with family gatherings and holiday events and afternoons spent relishing a lazy Saturday, pausing to peacefully sip coffee in our living room before rising to finish household tasks. But a string of days in a row? This seemed a vicious and abrupt halt; my heart was bucking.

As we walked along the shore that first evening, our feet sank into the edges of the Atlantic. Waves roared and crashed in rhythmic fury, foamy waters breaking, skirting our ankles, pulling us in. We evaded a bloom of jellyfish and bent low to collect shells. I lamented my neglect in packing a shovel and pail and thereby cradled an overflow of exquisite shells in my cupped hand.

My pastor-husband was trying to unwind but I saw his lips moving silently as we walked, a sure sign that he was untangling something weighty. Our brains were full as we beheld a lengthy list of tasks requiring attention on the other side of this reprieve.

My mind roared: Hurry up and relax! Have fun! Right now!

We plodded along in silence, holding dense space in our togetherness, as seagulls swooped, spun, and mewed overhead. Then, tiny Grey Plovers captured my attention.

What adorable birds, scooting away as the waves rolled in and swiftly returning to the ocean’s edge as the tide washed out. They gulped mollusk meat and other invertebrate seafood, relentlessly pecking at the sand for hidden treasure.

These delicately built shorebirds seemed resilient, feasting between crashing tides, the mighty waves and powerful undertow sifting and rattling the sand, stirring up the seafloor teeming with food for these quaint creatures.

As I studied them pitter-pattering over the sand, I felt the depth of my fatigue–years of dodging an onslaught of waves, determinedly returning to the fray time and again, pecking spiritual sand for substance and dashing for cover as the next breaker raged to shore.

The waves of suffering that threatened to drown in fact became the impetus, the crash and pull, that God used to jolt my soul awake, stirring up not only the sands of affliction but of affection. For Christ.

God does that.

//

We continued walking as the sun descended. A young couple, all swagger and charm, passed by and I paused.

That was us thirty years ago.

The wind grazed our backs, and I recalled the recent musings of a dear friend.

Kristin, so many dreams have fizzled along the way in my marriage–a good marriage, yes–but now I find myself at an age where I consider all those things we never did.

I swirled her heartache round and round. Something pricked my mind as I turned and discovered my footprints being erased by the tide.

Oddly, my friend seemed to cherish the injury of unfilled dreams.

A trickle of sweat raced down the back of my neck. My husband and I had walked a long way in the sand.

There remains a powerful temptation in midlife to nurse and rehearse dreams unfulfilled. The loop snags and captures with:

We never did this, we never went here, we never bought this–

To what end? I whispered and the wind carried my words and lifted them high, a strata of smoke poised over a stunning view. I suddenly felt invisible against the backdrop of sky, sea, and sand.

The all those things we never did is a thorny and fruitless path, often culminating in a sour, self-centered existence.

For the Christian, all those things we never did may humbly be replaced with:

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

A Grey Plover, less than a stone’s throw away, pecked at the ocean’s edge and was rewarded with a fat sea worm that dangled from its beak. He cocked his head and stared at me, before gulping his dinner.

//

The next day we returned and meandered the same beach. We laughed at the previous days’ fretfulness, as generosity and kindness took front and center stage in our conversation. Our minds and bodies had grown fond of vacation.

We unfolded our beach chairs and reclined, legs stretched and feet toeing the sand; reminiscing about long-ago beach ventures with our four little children. How few we were actually able to take and when we did?

My, oh my. The planning, the coolers, the sunblock, diapers, sippy cups. Skipped naps and endless treks to the public restrooms, bathing suits tugging uncomfortably with wet clumps of sand scraping salty skin. The laughter, the togetherness, tossing frisbees and footballs and scooping up shells. Stopping for ice cream on the way home and surrendering to the deep sleep that falls like magic come nightfall following a day at the shore.

The wonder of memories is that they can only be fully appreciated backward, even as the hourglass sands continue to trickle.

And then: Poof!

The season is gone.

The passage of time tends to tame previous difficulties, smoothing hard edges, we mused aloud, eyes closed; lulled by the tide. Soon my husband was asleep, and I rose to meet the ocean, surprising myself by diving in.

The Atlantic Ocean is more forgiving than the passage of time. I dove beneath the waves and swam, eventually floating, eyes closed, recalling what it felt like to be a child at the beach, carefree days when I thought childhood would last forever even though I wished it wouldn’t. Late afternoons spent with a shovel and pail mining tidepools and capturing unsuspecting periwinkles and hermit crabs, gathering sea glass as my damp hair bleached, years before I cared about natural highlights.

After riding the waves for a time, I bid goodbye to the waters and moved toward the sands, dripping, and noticed that the beach was largely deserted, except for one elderly couple, holding hands while leisurely walking the shoreline, weathered and wrinkled and slow, pants rolled high and hats pulled low against the fading sun.

That might be us in twenty-five years, I thought.

My husband opened one eye and smiled, as he stood and stretched. We folded our striped chairs and slung our thick beach towels around the back of our necks.

I noted something poking out of the sand.

An abandoned shovel and pail, nearly buried.

I scooped it up for our next walk which yielded shells that now inhabit our garage. I will do something with them, as a memorial of our 30th. They will serve as a reminder of the Grey Plover, the beauty of life, the joys of a long marriage, the flame of hope amid suffering, and the memory of diving beneath the clean and cold Atlantic.

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

//

Three decades ago I could not discern what lay ahead on life’s stretch of sand. I shielded my young eyes against the burning sun but try as I might could not see the end of the beach. The shoreline–speckled with beauty, blessings, and brutality–remained hidden.

How could I imagine the joys and sorrows of marriage, motherhood, and ministry? Or the growth that would come through surging waves of suffering?

How could I know that heartbreak would push me to pick up pen and paper and trace the goodness of God?

How good to pause and remember all the things that God has done.

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Old age, when life becomes quieter and slower, is prime time to reflect on the power of the gospel to change us. It is also a time when we are tempted to think small–to think about our aches and pains, our disappointments and unrealized expectations. Will we be good stewards of our old age? Even as physical strength diminishes, will we pursue our destiny–knowing God?

Susan Hunt, Aging With Grace: Flourishing in an Anti-Aging Culture

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This piece was written last year. I reposted it in honor of our 31st anniversary, which we celebrated this week.

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