Ian was snuggled next to me during our pastor’s Father’s Day sermon, drawing on the bulletin because I wouldn’t let him use a collection envelope. He was using the open Bible on my knee as a table.
Suddenly, with an over-zealous flourish, the tip of the pencil strayed from bulletin to Proverbs and a small, gray arc ran through verses four, five, and six. He gasped and his hand froze. His eyes were trembling as he looked at me with fear, horrified at his desecration.
God isn’t much for lightning bolts, but Ian wouldn’t have been surprised.
I managed not to laugh. I whispered into his ear, ‘It’s okay, honey. You didn’t do it on purpose.’
He retreated to Kelly’s side. He shook his head and whispered, ‘It’s the Word of God.’
I explained that the Word of God is more than a book, and is stronger than a pencil. That he didn’t write through the Word, only across a page.
He didn’t buy it, and buried himself further into Mommy’s arms.
We spent the week eating corn fritters in the morning and ice cream in the evening, walking on the beach and building sand castles.
As the sun sets on the gulf, tiny mollusks no bigger than a fingernail line the shore. They rise from the sand with each passing wave, popping to the surface in large groups to feed. They pebble the beach, turning the shoreline into a shifting cobbled path.
Just as quickly they bury themselves, hiding from sandpipers and the pounding of waterlogged feet. They shimmy and slip beneath the sand like dolphin fins beneath the waves. I don’t know how they do it, but I explained to Ian that they probably vibrate too quickly to see, shifting the grains of sand around them like a blanket.
Ian would constantly fall behind. He looked for shells and fish, watched sand fleas dart between his toes and scatter from his footprints. He squatted with his hands on his knees and kept his face inches from the water, which told us just how far he’d come in his battle with the ocean.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw him kneeling, his fingers digging in the sand. He ran toward us, heralded by the patter of his feet on the wet sand and holding something between his thumb and forefinger. He waved his hand in the air.
‘Daddy, I think this one’s dead,’ and showed me the small, closed shell he’d found. ‘It doesn’t…it won’t…,’ and he squatted and wiggled his bottom, an impromptu Chicken Dance in the waves of Madeira Beach, ‘…do that! Like that!’
He tossed the shell into the sea and ran back to his interrupted search, bookmarked by eroding footprints.
