The Sandbar

 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.

www.sandwestedit.com  

JANE

 JANE

As most of you know, I was removed from my home at the age of five. Even after being removed, I would end up back there from time to time—whether for a home visit, a trial placement with my family, or just between places to stay. One thing was certain: I always had to make new friends and adjust to a new neighborhood. 

Looking back at this story, I understand there was a reason for these temporary stops in my life. Some of you reading this, who have been removed, can relate to my story. Home is always where we wanted to be, no matter how bad it was. We always sought the words that screamed home. It was a tradeoff to be home and endure the torture that was soon to come. No matter what that looked like, the rest stop was a much-needed break from the mental and physical stress that living outside of the family brought. Unless you have lived this, it’s almost impossible to imagine these emotions. That’s why I am writing about this now—to give insight into what I call a rest stop. It seemed to be a beautiful place because for the first weeks at the rest stop all the principals involved had to be on their best behavior. This could last for weeks, but eventually, the transition would happen, and the removal would inevitably take place. It was a part of the system—a process that, while not perfect, did offer me some degree of protection. 

If I remember correctly, I was about nine or ten years old and at yet another rest stop. I found myself back home in a single-wide trailer in a new trailer park on Buffalo Road in Raleigh, NC. The trailer was nearly brand new, and my brother and I had our own room to share. It sat at the end of one of the many streets in the trailer park. 

By the time I arrived, my family had already settled in, but for me, it was unfamiliar—I was a new kid. The neighborhood kids had plenty of questions. Who are you? Where did you come from? I didn’t know how to explain it, so I said I was there for a short time. Eventually, the questions faded, and I found my place in the social order. 

At the end of the street, I was met by a family who lived in a double-wide trailer; if you’ve ever lived in a trailer park you know that the double-wide people seem to have a step up on the regular park people, but that was not the case here. My first encounter with them was so irregular that I was caught off guard. Their daughter, Jane, saw me riding my bike at the end of the street, and she came out to talk to me. She invited me into their home, and I was met by her younger sister, Elizabeth, two older brothers, Rusty and Tommy, and, of course, her mom and dad. Her dad was an extremely tall man with a raspy voice; Jane’s mom had a voice that would warm anyone’s heart. Entering their home was calming, and I felt so safe. It was restful to my soul and spirit. 

Jane and I became best friends over the next few weeks and then that turned into months. My principals were maintaining a strict code of conduct, and I was even trying to be better at being better. I spent most of my time at Jane’s house and even spent the night there on many occasions. I had dreams that they might even adopt me. I had all but moved in with them. I had become good friends with her brothers as well. This family was one of the first of many rest stops who brought peace to my soul and showed me an unconditional love I didn’t know how to accept. 

Jane and I would put playing cards in the spokes of our bike wheels and ride around the park, laughing and having the best time that life could bring anyone. We built forts in the woods and sat for hours talking about our lives. She accepted me for who I was. But in the back of her mind, she knew I wouldn’t be there forever. I had shared with her on many occasions that I would soon be leaving, moving on to yet another place. Even now, as I write this, I feel a mix of sadness and peace. This was the first of many rest stops in my life. 

Then, the time came for me to leave. Jane and I had one last conversation, asking the same questions: Will I ever see you again? Will I ever talk to you again? The answers were always, Of course, but deep down, we knew the truth. 

As the car drove away, I turned back to see Jane standing beside her bike waving goodbye. 

I never saw Jane again. I’m sure she grew up to be a wonderful person, and I know her family welcomed the next person at the rest stop. That was their gift to humanity—to be that place of solace and refuge for those in need.

The rest stop. Be sure to take one now and then. They are placed in your life and have a purpose. Take the time and allow yourself to pause—even if it’s just for a moment—to rest. 

www.sandwestedit.com