The Time Will Come

“Who are you texting to?” Pam asked, walking into my room Saturday morning.  “I thought you and Gary weren’t speaking.”

I pushed send and told her it wasn't Gary - I think she had been living vicariously through me during our brief reunion. 

It was a message to my younger daughter.

“I didn’t know you were communicating with her,” she said in surprise.  

To which I replied, “I’m not. Well, I’m communicating with her, she’s just not communicating back.”  And I actually was able to smile when I said it this time.

I got a brief text from my daughter on Valentines day a year ago - that's 14 months ago.

It blew me out of the water as I’d not seen nor heard from her in eleven years – the result of horrible post-divorce squabbles with her father and many months and years of lies and misinformation.

And as always, I’ve just tried to walk the tightrope between letting her know that I love her deeply and want to see her, and frightening her off into another decade of separation.

So I’ve tried to limit my communicating to a minimum, fearful that I would frighten her away.  I invited her to come join us at Thanksgiving.  And texted her on Nick’s birthday as a reminder (two weeks later) – an excuse to reach out to her.

I wished her a Merry Christmas, and again a Happy New Year.  I made up some excuses in January, but can’t remember what any longer.

I wrote her on her birthday in early February, saying I owed her a birthday lunch any time any day.  No response.  But I hadn't expected one.  How does one expect a young lady to overcome a decade of separation and mistrust?

Then I knew that her spring break was coming up and sent her another note saying I didn’t want to be pushy, but her coupon for a birthday lunch had no expiration date.  

And she was welcome to bring her boyfriend or anyone else.

No response.

With her vacation coming to an end this past weekend, I thought I’d give it another try.  I invited her again, hoping that she, my son Nick  and I could get together.  

Finally, Saturday morning as I got ready to go meet Nick for lunch (and to pick up my long-loaned and long-missed camera!) I sent her another text telling her the time and place we’d be meeting for lunch in case she wanted to come by.  

Just in case.

I had absolutely no expectation that she would reply or join us.  But even after all these years, I am still foolishly hopeful at times.

And half way to meet Nick for lunch, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the 405 freeway, my phone began to buzz at me.

I figured it was just Gary, and was  frustrated that he’d be texting me as I've decided we're just not going to work out as we both want different things.

I figured I’d just ignore it.  But the darn thing keeps buzzing at me every few minutes until I picked it up.

So I quickly flipped it open and then closed it again just to shut it up.


Then I realized that now that I'd stopped it buzzing, it would nag at me wondering what he'd said.  So I picked it up and took a peek just so I could get it off my mind.

And lo and behold a message from my Erin!!!  

It said, “Actually have two BBQs to attend today, but I would like to do lunch sometime in the near future.”

I had to covertly flip the poor phone open  a dozen times on the rest of the drive to meet Nick – just to be sure I didn’t imagine it.  But there it was!

It was the happiest day of my life, I think.  Maybe even more so than the actual births of my children – which were incredibly amazing moments.

But I think the difference is that the pregnancies had all had an expected, guaranteed, definite contact date – give or take two weeks.  

All of them were all pretty much exactly on the due date – except Jen whose delivery we sped up a couple of days with my kicking a soccer ball around a huge park.   Her father didn't want to take a day off of work for the delivery!

But in this case with Erin, there was no expected or guaranteed delivery date.  There was no assurance of a light at the end of the tunnel.  No guarantee of ever seeing her again.  No guarantee of anything.  Just endless hoping and trying not to hope.  Of waiting patiently and crying when the patience ran out.

And there it was – written in black and white!  I was just over the moon.

I had lunch with Nick and then went over to Zack's new condo

where they live along with Zack's cousin.  I got the grand tour and had a good time with 'my boys,' as Zack has always been like a second son to me and they are like brothers.

Then I headed back down toward home, still in amaze
-ment.  (Nick and Zack live about an hour north of me up against the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, and I live down near the coast.)

Driving along, smiling from ear to ear, I realized I had a few hours of daylight left and time on my hands.  

And after a lengthy separation, I also now had my camera by my side.



So I decided to go walk on the beach.

Even though we live so close to the beach, I never really have the chance to walk slowly and silently along, enjoying the rejuvenation of the beach.  

I always have my roommate and neighbor in tow.  If I go, they have to go too.

Not that I mind.  But they want to just walk on the pier and go home, or maybe even just walk a short bit on the asphalt bike path that runs for miles and miles along southern California beach line.

But never the get-your-feet wet, feel-the-foam-around-your-
ankles kind of walk.  

So with my newly returned camera in hand, I parked the car, took off my tennies and slung them over my shoulders.  

And then I walked in the sand.

I stopped for a while to watch the volleyball players in the sand. 
  
(There are dozens of nets with hundreds of first- come-first-served players enjoying them.) 

And I snapped a few pictures.

Then I walked down along the pier’s pilings to the water line and hit the water's
edge.  

The toes squishing and scrunching in the wet sand, the wind in my hair.  

I was surrounded by little kids playing in the sand, big kids playing football.  

Women and small children  looked for shells.  

Lovers strolled hand in hand, and yet others beach- goers watched the surfers.

I strolled along, observing people – one of my favorite pastimes.  

I talked to a few people as I went along - com- menting on their sand castles; admiring their babies.

And then I photographed others at random.  
I loved it!

And along the way, between photo- graphs, I even picked up a few shells of my own.  


I found some clams, a few scallops and some mussels.

And all the time thinking of Erin and smiling at the thought that she didn’t hate me any more.

After waiting all these years, I might see her  "sometime in the near future." 

Words just haven't been invented yet to explain the feeling that kind of hope brings! 

It's better than winning the lottery and meeting Prince Charming on the same day!

I even stopped a stranger and asked him to take a photo of me.  

And that is really saying something, as I absolutely hate being in front of the camera.  

But this was a day to commemorate!  I wanted a photo of me - fat or ugly or not - to remember this day.

It was such a beautiful day that I walked farther than I should have.  

Reluctantly, I turned around and headed back, shoes slung over my shoulder, my hand full of shells.  

And reaching the pier, I sadly put on my shoes and socks and headed home.

I spent the rest of the evening and long into the night editing the 278 photos I took.

This involved mostly just the slow job of shrinking the good ones down to size so they could go on the internet and deleting the not so good ones.

And when I woke the next morning, I should have had a huge smile on my face.  But the burning pain all through my low back and hips precluded that.  

My long, slow, joyous walk on the beach set every joint in my low back in flames.  Surprisingly not the muscles – just the joints.

I am indeed getting old.  I’ve had the inflammatory problem for decades – even long before the girls were ripped from my life. 

But not doing anything as laborious as my long walk on the beach has lulled me into a sense of false security.  It was just waiting for a serious chance to flare up.

So this week’s story has a two-fold lesson, I guess. 

The first lesson being that sometimes waiting patiently pays off. Though it may seem interminable at the time, the answer to the prayer will come.  And you have to realize that sometimes the answer is going to be "not yet."

There is no guarantee how long the wait will be.  But at the right time, God will supply your needs.

And the second being that Satan sometimes lures us into a sense of false security.  He’ll give you periods of apparently peaceful living lulling you into that sense of well-being. 
  

And all of the sudden “bam!” he hits you in your vulnerability – just as the peace- ful, joyous walk in the sand did me.  

Only with Satan, it can’t be relieved with ibuprofen. 

Only God’s love can overcome the kind of pain you’ll find when waking up after Satan’s painful punishment.


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