Real . . . And Gone


Tonight I miss the constant sound of breakers and their ghostly beauty in the dark. We camped all weekend at Cape Lookout on Oregon's northern coast. Friends from our extended church community made the trip that's been a tradition since years before my family became a part of things.

Our group tent sites nestle amongst pine trees now precariously near the encroaching Pacific. Waves and wind may erode this parcel of sand in the not-distant future; a ranger warned we shouldn't assume next year's Labor Day campout will happen in the usual spot.

All the more reason for my melancholy this evening. I've returned to solid walls and gadget-land, where friends, though not far away, cannot simply show up, sit around the campfire my husband built and laugh, unhurried, sensing the ocean's calming rhythm and thankful for God-sent gifts under a misted canopy.

We learned on the way home today about Steve Irwin's death. The Crocodile Hunter, whose wife, Terri, comes from our town, spoke my kids' language when they were little and discovering snakes and other cool, crawly creatures. I ache for his children, a girl and a boy as in our case, who will grow up without their amazing daddy hanging around in person. May God give them strength and a lot of encouragement from memories as they find their own real lives in precarious creation.

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