SandStorm

I am blessed to live and work in a place where I can slip away to the beach for an extended lunch hour, if need be.

Need be often.

We have FINALLY kissed off winter here. I have entered the season of sleeping with the windows WIDE open so I can fall asleep to the song of the crickets, arise to the bright, cheerful sun, and trust that if it’s going to rain, it’s gonna RAIN torrentially in this subtropical climate then git along and give way to the sun again.

What I forgot when I slipped away last week for said lunch hour, was my sunscreen.

Shee-yit. (I am not cursing, um, this is my dialect, right?)

It was only an hour, and I was there for a very, very worthy cause, believe you me.

I even stayed in my work clothes, not one stitch removed (collective gasp).

Problem was, it was windy as all get-out. This seemed friendly enough until I sat there the first few minutes and realized the fine, sugar-white sands were painfully whipping at me with great speed.

This stung.

I turned my chair after the first 30 seconds and endured a bit more, before I turned my chair again, away from the onslaught. I tucked my bag under my chair so grains of sand would not scratch my cell phone buried deep within, or get in the pages of my monthly devotional, or find their way into my beloved change purse I bought from the Insectarium in New Orleans (where I hide my tiny iPod shuffle which contains the secrets of my heart).

I finally adjusted to a direction where I was at least oblivious to most the pelting sands, to where I could collect myself and pray and think and relax and indulge…and veg. “Funny how your feet, in dreams, never touch the earth…”

That day last week marked the one-year anniversary of my fading in and out of consciousness as I was rushed from one hospital to another, where they performed what I was later told was known in the trade as a “slash-n-gash,” a last-ditch effort to save a life of one bleeding internally. Spare no décorum, they sliced me open, hoisted aloft my intestines, vacuumed out the blood and gore, and hoped I came to.

And by God’s grace and the prayers of the saints, I did.

I continue to be guts-challenged, but am a living testimony to the wonders of modern medicine. And while things have never quite been the same, I have been able to resume most of my normal routine, including running, parenting, wifery and other antics.

So I cruised down to the beach that day to thank God for sparing me, for giving me another year of life. It was awesome.

I cried out to God for taking the child a year ago that day who had a nonstop flight to Heaven instead of having a layover with us here. It was grievous.

I celebrated all things saved, and mourned all things lost.

Why me, Lord?

I watched the seagulls petition me for my lunch; no dice. I watched tourists play chicken with the waves. Waves: 1; Tourists: 0.

I watched the fishermen catch supper. I watched the sun go from over here to over there. And the sea laughed when a higher wave washed all too close to me and my chair with my bag underneath, and made me quickly pick everything up and hightail it about 8 feet north so I didn’t get soaked.

That was when I noticed the sand-drift, like a snow-drift. The wind had been blowing so hard, my bag underneath was all but buried in sand. The act of picking it up in haste to move away from high tide caused even more sand to fall into my bag. I didn’t care what the people behind me at the stoplight thought on my way back to work; I took every item out of my bag and diligently shook out the sand (we just did an analysis of my front porch; perhaps an analysis of what’s in my bag should be forthcoming).

And snap my WonderBra and call me astonished…I did the same when I got home and discovered that sand had invaded the netherparts of my body, despite being fully dressed. In work clothes. In the tightest of crannies. Wth.

Glory be, for the last 5 days I’ve been afforded the luxury of not needing a necklace. You see, on that day, I wore my string of pearls. I am not the type to think about removing it (my alma mater was known for us girls wearing pearls-n-sweats to class). Thus, in that li’l ol’ hour, Mr. Sun blessed me with a gentle sunburn which outlined my pearl necklace, causing me to appear as though I was wearing my pearls, 24/7. This came in handy on opening day.

Was it worth it? Y’all betcha!

Thanks, God, for yet another new lease on life, for saving me over and over and over again. For allowing me to live to experience the discomfort of sand in my bra and the pain of sunburn and the sting of loss. And for the satisfaction of living to tell all about it.