In Fairhope

It was hard not to be happy on a day like that.

The wind was making music in the trees and white-caps in the bay.
And I was making eggs in the kitchen.
And God was making moves in the silence.

It was a paradoxical day-- a day of peace and stillness but a day of movement and growth.

I had been sitting alone down on the end of the little neighborhood pier looking out over the bay sparkling in the late-morning sun. I had the intention of reading a book, but the wind and the sun and the water romanced me into simply sitting with them for awhile like an old couple in the twilight of life prefers to sit silently in each other's company. All their words, necessary and unnecessary, have already been spoken. Now, their hearts speak much louder than their mouths.

Sitting there, suspended a few feet above the bay by the old, wooden planks, I thought of romance. The thought was all at once familiar and foreign-- an earthly delight that had, thus far, eluded me. There is something about the horizon over the water that causes me to think of it-- hope for it. The thought is always the same yet somehow always new. The water touches some deep part of who I am, and I suppose I want that part of me to be known, cherished even, by someone who I know and cherish, and so I think of romance.

I imagined a friend of mine walking down the pier behind me, sitting down beside me, feet dangling, sunglasses filled with reflections of the bright blue bay and sky. He entered into my reality, looked out at the horizon nonchalantly, and grabbed my hand as if it wasn't even a surprise that he was there, and then he smiled. He might have made a joke, and I may have laughed. I don't remember. Mostly, he just sat there holding my hand like a promise, letting the wind and the waves do all the talking. We didn't say much else. We didn't need to.

Suddenly, I felt footsteps behind me on the pier, and he vanished. A little girl in a pink shirt peered curiously over the edge into the water. I looked around, but I saw no parents. She looked at me and then back at the water for a few more moments and then scampered happily back up the steps toward the beach. After awhile, I saw her mother walking beside her on the beach toward the neighboring pier.

I began to read my book.

A few minutes later, I heard the chatter of a small boy with a shaggy, nineties haircut and his father who, because of his hipster glasses and snarky attitude, looked somewhat out of place on a Fairhope pier with a little boy and his fishing pole. When he saw me, he made an introductory announcement that he was about to ruin my peace with a chatty three-year-old. I laughed and told him it was a delight to be interrupted. He was skeptical and asked if I was sure I didn't mind them fishing there. I said, "absolutely not." He didn't seem to believe the words, but my smile must have convinced him.

"What book are you reading?" he asked, to be friendly.

"The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene," I answered merrily as I dodged the boy's first attempt at a cast.

"Never heard of it," he said, almost apologetically. "I'm not very smart. I just spend my time trying to keep a three-year-old alive."

"That's a feat!" I chuckled.

He laughed in agreement. I was certain he was a local.

"Are you a professional?" I heard him say. I thought it was an odd question until I realized he was talking to his son. The boy was grinning from ear to ear, wide-eyed, fishing pole in one fist, and pointing with the other hand at seaweed in the water. The father began to teach him about something or another.

I went on reading.

The story was good. I had read it before long ago. A whiskey priest, a persecution, a dying country, an internal struggle between humility and pride...

The story, though, didn't match the atmosphere around me, so after I finished the chapter, I put it down again and looked out at the horizon. The boy and his father had left quietly and unexpectedly to take a walk down the narrow beach. I watched them playing with sticks in the sand as I walked back up toward the road.


Fairhope is another world... idyllic, like childhood. Was it a memory or a dream? I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, though, it was real. That's what's so astonishing about Fairhope. It's real. The beauty-- sun, wind, waves, Spanish moss in the oaks blowing gently in the wind, pink flowers on the street corners, American flags on the porches of architecturally diverse houses, white picket fences surrounding happy cottages, and little children learning to fish with their fathers on piers. It's like a storybook come to life.

The blue sky made me understand reality. I am not alone and never was. Even sitting here in solitude in my mother's house while she is away, I don't feel alone.

Hope is the fruit of days like these.

And I am grateful.