Green hills and Gouda cheese, spontaneous friends and warm ginger cake. God is generous indeed that one memorable day be followed by another:
As we yelped at the June bugs buzzing around our legs, we found ourselves digging our toes into sand and pushing with all our womanly might—because the truck too was digging itself deeper and deeper into sand. Alas, attempting to be covert little rebels by moonlight had backfired; we would not be driving onto the beach. But after discovering four-wheel drive, we three were outta there—and giddy with pride to have extricated ourselves from that foolish situation.
Where the great and beautiful dunes slope down to the beach, we worked on a fire, huddling close to keep the breeze from huffing out our matches. Seaweed doesn’t burn well, we discovered, but luckily we had “stolen” some cardboard from a dumpster on the way to our encampment (ah, such rebels). Drawing our legs up, we watched our fire struggle to live as we munched on chips and rhubarb muffins. We discussed grand human problems. And when the stars began to flaunt their brilliance, we lay back in our sleeping bags to ponder the greatness above—and the greatness at our feet, ever rushing against the shore.
I will tell you, I would sleep every night by the sea, if I could. Cradled by the sand, caressed by a salty breeze as warm as a mother’s touch, serenaded by the waves—I was soothed to my core. I slept like a child. At least, until it began to rain.
Even still, as we retreated to drier ground (namely, a house), I loved the world. Draped in my sleeping bag, passing barefoot through the dunes and prickly scrub, I kept glancing over my shoulder to watch the thinnest crescent of peach edge above the horizon. Sheer loveliness it was.
I think I loved that night as much as I did because something in me recognized that I was in my natural habitat. Yes, my soul was remembering Eden . . .