The Sandbar
From time-to-time, memories surface that I don’t understand how to express, much less write about. This is one of those rare memories that was triggered by the last story, Jane.
A river, flowing just down the street from our trailer, became part of our daily lives. It wasn’t a particularly powerful river, but graceful, lofty trees lined its banks and provided us shade and a place of solace. These trees had been drinking out of the river for centuries. They spoke so many stories to us, of those who had been before us, and of those who would follow.
This was during a time that I happened to be at home—what I described in the last story as a rest stop for me. The principals at my current residence were playing well and showed no signs of torture, but I knew that was just a matter of time.
On any hot summer day, my brothers, Mike and Chris, would join me down by the river. Jane would come with us as well; she wasn’t much into fishing but enjoyed the time we spent together.
We had a special place where we fished—it was called the sandbar. It appeared mostly when the river was at its lowest. I remember us walking through the trailer park, fishing poles in hand, heading down the street to that path in the woods—the one that led to our special spot on the river. We were excited to see that sandbar as we stepped over the puddles of water and made our way onto that exquisite place. We kicked off our shoes as soon as we reached the sandbar, and the sand felt coarse on our bare feet. Our toes sunk into the sand, and we felt the wonder of God’s creation. This place gave us a glimpse of who God was, even though we didn’t know much about God at that point; we were mostly in survival mode. One thing we knew for sure—the sandbar led us to a place of hope and peace.
The sandbar served several purposes, and one was to give us the perfect spot to cast our lines across the river to the large rock on the other side—where all the hefty catfish lay. When the river was high, that rock was out of reach, but when the river receded and the sandbar emerged, we had access to those massive cats.
The expansive sandbar contained both sun and shade. Fresh beams of sunlight shined overhead, and shade was in abundance as well.
Jane wrote in the sand most of the time; she often would play a game and ask, “What did I spell?” I always took time to answer regardless of the intense fishing going on.
We were all in place but yet out of place on the sandbar. The grace the sandbar brought us also brought us more beauty than we could have ever imagined. Here’s that one memory I have.
First I tied on the bolts and nuts to my fishing line, added some old stinking chicken livers to my hook, and cast over to the big rock. The line hit bottom, and I set my pole in the sand; the pole rested on a fork of a branch I had set just under the first eyelet on the pole. Then I waited. We watched all the poles that were set, waiting as the river pulled the lines ever so lightly. Suddenly, my pole went from a straight position to almost touching the water of the river. I grabbed the pole quickly and started to reel. I screamed, “It’s a big one; it’s a big one. My friends ran over to me, and Mike and Chris encouraged me to keep reeling. They were screaming, “Reel, reel; you got ‘em.” The fight went on for what seemed like hours, but it was just minutes. We just wanted to see that monster! What was it? Was it the big one we had always dreamed of catching?
I kept reeling, and finally, he surfaced right in front of us all; we were eye to eye with this enormous fish. I stopped reeling and walked backward, dragging him on the sandbar. He had to be three feet long. We were not much taller than he was. He was now completely out of place, but we needed to show him off to the trailer park. Otherwise, no one would have believed us.
I can vividly remember us all, including Jane, jumping for joy and feeling ecstatic the moment we caught that massive fish. There was never any question about what we were going to do with him—it was unspoken. I grabbed him by the gills, and we headed to the trailer. It was a struggle to get to our destination. Once we entered the house, my brother Mike instantly started filling the bathtub with water. That’s right, we put that fish right in the tub. He seemed happy, but we all knew he was out of place.
As the fish filled the entire tub, we summoned all our friends in the trailer park; it was like a sideshow of sorts. As the kids walked through our trailer to our bathroom, amazed by this anomaly of nature, we felt like the kings of the river.
Then the inevitable happened. Mom came home and flipped the trailer upside down. “Get that fish out of here. You can’t keep him here. Take him back to the river where he belongs. He’s out of place here!”
She actually took it way better than we thought. We laughed all the way back to the river. Jane reminded us that our laughter would soon end because of the look on our mom’s face. Then we broke out crying with laughter all over again.
Back at the sandbar where our journey began, we laid him near the water, his head just touching the surface. As quickly as we pulled him in, he eased back into the water. He swam along the bank of the sandbar as if to thank us for putting him back into his place. Then, all of a sudden, he disappeared—back to the big rock to tell his story to all those who had witnessed his displacement. If only fish could talk. He was back where he belonged.
Being out of place can bring about pain, suffering, and even death. Being out of place can also bring new life, beautiful endings, and fresh beginnings. We were out of place on that sandbar, and yet, it led us to new places and brought us solace and peace at a time when we had no way to escape. As a family, we often seemed out of place—unwanted and in the way of others’ stories. We survived in so many different places, either together or apart, but our family bond always remained strong.
This story has so many possible endings. I’ve been sitting on it for weeks now, pondering the perfect conclusion. I’ve even woken up at two and three in the morning, asking myself how it should end.
Being out of place is different for all of us. It can happen in a restaurant, a store, during a conversation, with a glance, a word, a smile, in a relationship, and even with family.
In the end, you only have to ask two questions when you feel out of place: “How do I get back? How do I return, healthy and ready to continue my story as it’s intended to be written?”
So, what’s your plan? You’ve got to get back! No matter what, you have to find your way back to where you belong.