I never expected to find myself living on a little island called Nahant. You may find this strange, but my story begins in Spain.
If you have read The Harbour, found under Short Works on my site, you know that I walked the Camino de Santiago in May 2014. On this pilgrimage, I met a seminarian whom I forged a beautiful friendship with in the few days that we spent together—walking, talking, and praying—and when it came time to part ways, he invited me to come visit him in Boston, Massachusetts.
I flew to Boston in August. My friend picked me up that night and drove me out across the black ocean to the mile-by-mile island called Nahant. I was to stay with friends of his. My first night there was grace-filled. I discovered that the house is consecrated to Mary, she who I had consecrated myself to only days before. And I felt instant kinship with the family. When I settled into bed, my soul was at rest.
Next morning I awoke far too early, but could not fall asleep again. I decided to walk to the ocean. In the golden light, with the smell of the ocean in the air, my heart was sighing; I knew there was something special about this place. And when I sat on a bench above the shell-strewn beach, God swooped in and overwhelmed me with the sense that, as He blesses me in profound ways (such as with the Camino and a subsequent trip to Boston), an exciting story is unfolding. I figure He knows nothing less would satisfy this writer’s heart.
By week’s end, I had discerned to return to Nahant. I will be living with this family for a time, keeping house, exploring, writing. I imagine I will take my laptop to the various points on the island and type away in the breeze, multicolored sailboats and Boston’s towers on the horizon.
Tomorrow, I fly.