Wet Shoes and Wandering Souls

It was December 6^th, just a few days ago, and despite the fact that the sun had already set in Virginia, it was still 75 degrees. I couldn't handle being inside on a night like that, so I asked a friend to join me, and we decided to go to the ocean.

I've never been to the ocean at night before. The wind was warm as we got out of the car and made our way through the grassy dunes towards the water. He took off his shoes, I made my way through the sand, feeling the grains infiltrating through the cracks in my sneakers.

It was dark, the kind of dark where even the full moon behind us wasn't bright enough to eliminate the foggy, hazy darkness in front of my face. Before my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I was half-tempted to reach out for my friend’s hand; a childhood fear of the dark unknown gripped me for only a few seconds.

But then it was gone.

I could hear the sound of the sea as it heaved and roared in the night. Suddenly I realized that I hadn't seen it, this dear old friend, in months, and I had missed it so much. I thought about how it had continued its daily rituals without me and I felt as if I had missed out, like how a parent must feel when he or she has missed a significant part of a child’s life.

But now, I was back again, breathing in the salty air, clutching my coat to my throat, trying to keep the chilled air from getting too close to my skin. And all of a sudden everything was alright again. I was reunited with my love, and I could feel my soul, which had been tied up tightly within my chest all week, release into the open air, where it was allowed to fly and wander freely…

(…That is until my friend pushed me into the water, thus getting my shoes wet as well as sandy…)

But it was enough. It was enough to be close to the sea again. It was enough to feel my soul released. And it was enough to be that close to God, even for those few moments.