I Saw You

I Saw You

Hey Chris, I saw you today. You were sitting on the rail of the pier, fishing with your friends. You were talking it up as usual and asking questions about the fish in the Cape Fear River. You were probably asking how deep the water is and what kind of bait you should use. This reminds me of how you used to ask those questions in the old days down by the river. 

Your beard still looks the same, all spotty with rough patches around your chin. Your hands still look the same—their strength tells the story of a working man. Your voice is still scruffy and harsh sounding, but so soft in tone. 

It’s the last day of vacation for Lisa and me in Southport, North Carolina. We have fished on the city pier almost every day for the last nine days. Some days were good and other days not so good. We found ourselves staying in room six again at the Riverside Motel. This seems to be a magical place for encounters. There was a tropical storm that rolled through the first couple of days, most likely impacting the fishing. For the most part, our trip was wonderful. People from all walks of life strolled out on the city pier throughout the day. Some just watched as we fished, and some wanted to talk about it. 

Today was like all the other days since we’ve been here; the fishing was slow, and the crowds were large. I’m not sure that we blended in as locals, but they thought we knew what we were doing. Ironically, we were on our last fishing rigs because we had lost all to the rocks below, and we only had a few pieces of bait left. We were far from locals; we were the only people fishing together. No matter the place, we have always enjoyed this togetherness. We listen to stories in stereo and repeat them later in mono to each other. Did you hear that? Did you hear this one? Oh, wait a minute, did you hear her and the story she told? These brought smiles and laughter to our souls. 

But there was one thing about today that was different. We noticed a tent near the pier and lots of children and parents setting something up. We just thought it was a different vendor, as they frequently came to that area to sell stuff. It was hot on the pier, and there were numerous locals fishing. You can tell who they are; they just look like they belong. I didn’t pay much attention to them. I looked mostly at the water and listened to surrounding conversations. That’s what I enjoy the most, just listening and waiting for the next story to come to life. 

I had just emerged from the grip of a story that had me locked down for months—one of those complex, never-ending pieces that refuse to let you rest. The Lens haunted me day and night, demanding my attention. After countless revisions, I finally sent it to my editor, who does beautiful work. As I write this story, it’s still with her. 

When I am free, I tend to listen more intently and watch people more closely. But the freedom is short-lived—another story is always on the verge of unfolding. 

I was listening to several stories today on the city pier. Some were as prescribed, which simply means I could tell you the end before they finished. No big deal—just the way I listen and process. 

I’ve been thinking about a person we met earlier in the week who seemed to be carrying a great deal of pain in her life. I didn’t press for any details. As I handed her my book, she simply said, “How did you know I needed this right now?” I wondered if this would be my next story. But it became clear it wasn’t—maybe later though. 

As we fished, I noticed a group of people coming down the city pier with their children, asking if we would like some lemonade. My knee-jerk response was, “No,” without even thinking or looking at who was offering me this sweet, refreshing drink. Then I glanced down. It was a little guy, maybe five or six years old, reaching up towards me with a cup of lemonade, and in his other hand, he held a pocket Jesus. 

“For you,” he said. I melted.

I was… I’m now crying just trying to write this. I was so humbled. So blessed. Moved beyond words. Not worthy of it. Humbled again. Hands in the air—overwhelmed by this unexpected expression of love right there on the city pier. 

I took the lemonade and the little Jesus and told the boy I had always wanted one of those. I placed it front and center in my tackle box. He also gave me a flower and a card with the name of their church. I was so moved by this that fishing didn’t even matter anymore. It was just about that moment and what was happening right then and there. 

They continued up and down the city pier, blessing everyone they met. 

I was staring at the water below, and this little girl came over to a group of people behind me on the pier who were fishing. She offered the group some lemonade, and they said, “Sure.” I held my cup up to toast the girl in the group, and one of them called out in a loud voice, “I know, right?” We acknowledged each other without any other social exchange, but it was great. 

I had not paid much attention to this small group of five or six behind me. They were all talking, and they even had some music playing very low. They looked like they were in their thirties or so. The group seemed to be more about just being there than fishing. I thought that was cool. 

The parents and children were making another pass to see if anyone needed a new cup of lemonade—or even a little Jesus. As they approached the group behind me, they asked, “Anyone need a lemonade or a Jesus?” One guy said in a very scruffy and harsh voice with a very soft tone to the little guy, “I don’t want any lemonade, but I will take a Jesus.” 

I turned—almost in slow motion—to see who had said this. My eyes followed from the floor of the pier up to the young man sitting on the rail. It was my brother, Chris! 

“I’ll take Jesus,” he said. I stared at this young man, and for a moment, our eyes met. It was as if he was saying, “I’m okay.” No words were spoken—just a quiet reassurance he was at peace. That while he was no longer here, he was doing just fine with his Jesus. 

Chris passed years ago after a long battle with drugs—a battle he could never win. The pain was too deep. At thirty-seven, his life ended, and his struggle finally gave way to peace. He is the one who introduced me and my family to Jesus. For that, I will always be grateful, and I am happy that he encountered Jesus when he did. 

I watched as the young man on the rail hopped down, tucked the little Jesus in his pocket, and walked away. As our eyes met once more, he gave me a glance that seemed to say, “I’m going to be just fine. I have Jesus with me now.” I stood there quietly and watched as they disappeared into the crowd.

When my brother left this world, all he had was a few papers in his pocket and a small New Testament Bible. I still have it to this day. This encounter reminded me that all we have in this world is hope. Hope that things are going to be okay. Hope that we are going to make it. 

Just like the old days at the river‚—we fished, we hoped, and we loved. 

It was great to see you today, my brother!

We all need a little Jesus in our lives.

www.sandwestedit.com  

 TAPESTRY

The wind has blown in my direction for many years now, from the east, west, north, and south. Many currents have taken me from there to here. The wind has finally calmed. Where am I? The tapestry is almost finished. The end is near; others say no, but I know it’s close.

So many want to be heard, and there is an abundance of talking and influencing happening in our world today. I believe it’s an attempt to complete the tapestry. Be it personal or otherwise, the tapestry is woven by what it hears, feels, and experiences. 

I’ve been thinking about this story for months now; it seems more complex than just a woven piece. It’s a story that is frayed yet still has a sense of completion. Sadly, every story has an ending, and that’s the beauty of the tapestry: it tells the whole story. What will mine look like? What will yours look like? Will they be completed or still marked by frayed ends—threads never told or never healed? 

Often called “the rich tapestry of life,” this metaphor describes how life is made up of many intertwined parts—threads of experience, memory, and emotion woven together. 

The tapestry is unique to each individual—there are no two people who look the same. The colors, the sunrises, the sunsets, the words, the glances, the smiles, the laughter, the conversations, the hugs, the kisses, and the stories that are told are different for everyone. 

Our tapestry tells a story. When completed, they hang on a wall of memories that last for a few years and maybe even into the next generation. At the end of our lives, what does it all mean? Is it really a life that says, “I have lived,” or a life that says, “I have been broken?” The words I write are for those who are to come and for those who see my tapestry and view it as a complete work or a frayed part of humanity. 

The tapestry is meant to make a difference; the colors and the weave of brokenness are all mentioned to bring about change in humanity. The brokenness is meant to bring light to those who need change and hope for a future. When people look at our completed and frayed tapestry, they will see that our struggle was real and that we left a path which was meant to be finished. It forges a path to completeness for those who will follow. 

The broken are those who are left behind and never raised to life. The broken are those who never realize that their tapestry matters. The broken are those who never ever know that their tapestry is being written and will be hung on a wall one day in front of all who know their story. Every story will be told one day, and every story matters, and that’s the importance of the tapestry. 

Woven together, piece by piece and thread by thread, our tapestry is being wondrously constructed. While in the moment, we don’t even realize that our tapestry may be nearing its end. Then, suddenly, the weaving slows, our nail is placed on the wall, and we see our tapestry as a whole. What have we left? What have we given? What message have we offered to humanity? Have we completed our mission? Is our tapestry frayed, or is it complete? So many questions arise in this woven pattern of life. 

In my own life, I can testify that my tapestry may never be completed, but as best I can, I will strive to weave every frayed thread. My goal is singular: to be at peace in the end, and to weave a tapestry that says I cared, that says I loved, and that makes an impact on humanity. In the end, I want my tapestry to say I was not lonely, that I was alive, blessed by all who knew me, a strength to those whom I encountered, and an encourager to the fallen. My tapestry will speak for itself. Its colors will be vibrant and full, telling a story of completeness and wholeness to all who knew me. The tapestry will tell our story. What will yours look like?

Mine may tell the inspiring story at the ball field last weekend with my grandsons. As a few of my frayed ends were being woven back together that day, I realized some were still healing and some had already been made whole. It felt like the solidarity between me and the tapestry itself. As tears rose to the edges of my eyes, no one knew, and no one saw, as this quiet, sacred moment unfolded. 

I was asking a simple question to my nine-year-old grandson. “So why are baseball gloves so expensive, and what’s with these baseball bats?” He began to explain in detail the reason for the soft, woven leather, the intricacy of the bat, and why the grip had to have a special wrap. The gloves were woven in fine leather, and the pocket was meant to catch the really fast balls. The pocket was supposed to protect the fingers, which fit into a specific place that helps shield the hands. I was so taken by the conversation. He even demonstrated how to hold his bat and how to swing it. Then he looked up at me and said, “That’s how we do it, G Daddy. It’s baseball.”

I thought about this for a few hours, and after talking to my sweet Lisa, I realized how profoundly this moment had impacted me. I felt as if some of the frayed ends of my tapestry had been woven back into place.

There was so much I had missed as a child. I realized my grandson was experiencing something I had never had the opportunity to see, much less be a part of. I was witnessing a chain, once broken by my own trauma, being mended with love, compassion, and a hope that is real. 

At his age, I had been fighting for my life, hiding from the evil that tried to destroy me day and night. I was that invisible child, longing to be seen and fighting to survive. There was no love, no baseball, no basketball, and no fun at all. Just the constant search for a place to rest, even for a moment, which felt like everything at the time. 

How blessed I am to be in this moment with my grandson, who has the opportunity simply to be. The opportunity to show his G Daddy his tapestry, the exquisite colors being woven in such sweet love. What a beautiful story my daughter and her wonderful husband have written—and continue to write—in his life. 

While my own tapestry remains frayed in so many places, I believe these moments in life take those worn pieces of our tapestry and weave them back into place. They complete us. They make us whole. And if we are willing, they bring a special healing to us all. 

It’s never too late. The tapestry is waiting for you. 

www.sandwestedit.com  

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