So why should I fear the future? For I'm being pursued only by Your goodness and unfailing love.~Psalm 23: 6 (The Passion Bible)

Last week I learned I placed first in an essay writing contest sponsored by my town. The writing prompt for the essay was Why Summerville? Here's what came to mind:

COMFORT ON NORTH CEDAR STREET

I hadn't planned on moving to Summerville. Didn't know much about the town, only that pink azaleas bloomed indefatigably in April and that it was about twenty-five miles from Charleston. I was in transition, free from the obligation of an eight-to-five grind. Retirement at last after a thirty-year stint in my field. There was a problem, though. Almost no condominiums were for sale in the Lowcountry. When I called my realtor to look at a property, usually someone had already made an offer, and much of the time that offer was over the asking price. Real estate was scarce during the Pandemic. 

Then an opportunity to buy a home opened in Summerville. I felt ambivalent about moving. I had lived in Charleston for eleven years. I'd been only a few miles from Folly Beach and downtown Charleston lay just over the bridge. I'd grown accustomed to walking down to the end of my street and climbing into the boughs of an ancient oak that overlooked a tidal marsh. Egrets and blue herons waded in brackish waters. I peered through curtains of Spanish Moss at skies streaked with coral and amethyst at sunset. Smelled the tang of salt. The embrace of that old tree and the stillness of the marsh whispered peace to me. I didn't want to move.

There was no turning back.The house by the tidal creek sold quickly. No room for the piano and scant storage at the new place. And all those books I had to purge. At the condo, sunlight poured through the windows and cast shadow patterns on the wood flooring. Granite counters gleamed in the new kitchen. The countertops in the old house were tiled with white squares that needed new grout.

Change of address forms, arranging furniture, finding new doctors and grocery stores and the nearest Walmart took some time. I didn't concentrate on missing Charleston. I was busy fashioning a different life in all the unaccustomed liberation of not working forty plus hours per week. 

Enter Summerville. Like a cerulean jewel dropped down from the heavens.

I can take all the madness the world has to give but I won't last a day without you.~Paul H. Williams/Roger S. Nichols (From the song I Won't Last A Day Without You)

My mind was a mess. I was trying to reach a state of mental poise by writing in my journal. Praying a bit. But it seemed I was holding a rucksack of dysregulated emotions. I felt as if I wasn't doing life right, couldn't keep up with all the things on my list; couldn't keep up with all the birthdays. So many people. And I hate to write fake birthday greetings. I always want to think of something meaningful to say. I can't just leave some already-written phrase from Linked In. I want to read more books, but then I scroll on Instagram too much. I want to be nicer to my neighbor who can hardly walk her dog. But then I avoid her. She doesn't remember much anyway. She probably won't remember that I haven't spoken to her in a few days. Ugh--a slush of insecurity, self-doubt and that gritty taste of shame in my heart I couldn't write in my journal--slammed it shut. Better I go grocery shopping. 

I got in the car and made my way to Walmart. As a waited in traffic, a faded yellow pick-up idled in front of me. I squinted to read the sticker on the driver's back windshield. Luke 24:6. I didn't know the Bible verse. When I got home, I remembered the Scripture reference and looked it up. "He is not here. He is risen." All the groceries were put away, there was nowhere I needed to be. i sat down in my favorite chair and opened Pandora. Karen Carpenter was singing, "I Won't Last A Day Without You." Tears rolled down my cheeks. In all my dysregulation, I had not considered to stop and be honest with Jesus, the alive One. I began to talk to Him and tell Him how I felt, that I knew He is the One I can't live without. Can't last a day without.

God yearns for our flourishing.~Eugene Cho

My mother expected a lot from me sometimes. She'd drop me off at the new school and smile, "Have a good day. See you at three." I longed for her to come into the school with me. I didn't know my way around. I was eight. I could feel my heart beating with anxiety. I hadn't yet sat under the tutelage of Mr. Rogers' wisdom that whispered, "When you don't know where to go or what to do, look for the helpers." A helper did arrive, a friendly teacher who found me wandering the halls. I did know my new teacher's name. The kind helper grabbed my hand and led me to my classroom. I felt relieved to find an empty desk, students still milling around in the chaos of the the first day of school. I wasn't late. My heartbeat slowed. I'd already memorized how to get to the new classroom. Tomorrow would be less scary.

Other times, my mother took me to places I liked to go. She stayed with me. One of our favorite locations was a park near our home. We could walk there. Giant oak trees shaded picnic tables situated on green, hilly knolls. We'd put our sack lunches on a picnic table and my mother would say, "Let's go swing." She'd exclaim, "Let's go really high!" I remember the dip in my stomach when I'd plummet down from that vast blue sky on those days with my mother. I loved to hear my mother laugh. I loved that she liked to swing too. Eventually, she'd make her way back to the picnic table, I could see her leaning back, elbows on the table, her face tipped up toward the sun. 

Won't you set out a traveler's lantern

Just a small light that they might see

To guide them back home before they wander

Into the dark billows that crash on the sea

~Dwight Yoakam (Lyrics from his song, Traveler's Lantern)

 "We had a beautiful year." That's how my friend began her Christmas letter. I wondered how the narrative would read. Life had thrown her for some loops over the year, which she didn't deny. I read on. I could almost hear her singing above the din of disappointment and heartbreak, her voice exuberant with thanksgiving to God. All her children were reading. The family had meaningful encounters with horses at a nearby stable. She and her husband had made gains in their careers. Their faith in God remained hale. Robust. 

Earlier in the year, this same friend had taken time to write me a personal letter. I knew she had little free time. I knew she had her hands full with all the kids, from baby to teen. I knew some of the challenges she faced were harder than mine. Yet she is one of those people who invites transparency without judgment. I wrote to her about some of the anxiety and fear gnawing at my heart. The "what ifs" of life, to put my angst in a nutshell. She wrote back, her words filled with "listening."  Her words like a traveler's lantern that helped me see. That cracked open my isolation. That helped me not give up.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.~Raymond Carver

"It feels good to be liked," I said. My granddaughter looked directly into my eyes and nodded, "It does." She smiled then and looked down at the letter she was writing to a boy who had braved to tell her that he liked her more than a friend.

"I want to be honest. I like him too. And I want to say that my parents have rules about boys and dating. I can't date yet. I want him to know." 

I replied, "Well, being honest is a good place to begin. And perhaps you can say what you can do." Her face brightened and she exclaimed, "Yes. We can play our clarinets together. We can share what's important to us. I already know that grades are a priority for him too. That we both like spending time with our families. And I like his smile. I can say that. Do you think that's good, Minou?" 

"That's really good," I said.