Waves

     We spent a week by the ocean. We had a view of the sea from the fifth floor balcony of our hotel room. Most days the sea and sky matched in a grayish cloudy hue and the white crest of the waves defined the shore. The sun poked through the clouds enough to warm us and send us into the water for cool relief.

        Dave took a picture of me at the ocean a couple of years ago. My hands are on my hips, my back is toward him and I am looking out at the expanse of ocean. I remember that moment when I felt so small standing in a space so large. My concerns shrunk, my appreciation deepened.

        I love the ocean but I was terrified of waves as a child. And as an adult. I went out too far but not far enough. I was turned and choked by the crashing waves. It made me afraid and avoidant. I clung to the sand and the ankle-deep water. This fear dampened me as I watched my six-year-old enjoy the ocean last week.

     Haven was insatiably fearless with his boogie board. I watched him whirl inside a surprisingly big wave, sure he would come out crying and spitting. Instead, he pulled his body upright and screamed, in the highest- and loudest-pitched voice possible, "That was totally wicked!" and tugged his boogie board out to "catch" another wave. What makes one child terrified by waves and another empowered? I really didn't feel like encroaching on the depths of myself, but I decided it was time to quell my terror.

    That afternoon I spotted a gray-haired woman floated further than most of the swimmers. I pushed myself out into the water where she was. "Are you getting hit a lot out here?"

     "No, my hair isn't even wet."

     I nodded and floated on the swelling water. I watched the people with boogie boards and bravery allow the waves to crash them, turn them, rock them. Most of them squealed and laughed and return for more, as Haven had. I stayed in the calm.

     "I'm only staying out this far because you are." I told the woman who didn't realize she'd become my new friend. "I'm terrified of waves." 

     "Ok!" She wasn't much for conversation so I shut it until I saw the water begin to rise higher, higher, higher right near us. Higher than I was brave or knowledgeable enough to handle. Higher and higher. "Oh boy." I called out. A note of fear. A statement of helplessness. I thought to run to the shore.

     "Just turn your back to it and jump." Her voice was calm and confident and I clung to it like I would have clung to her arm had we actually been friends. I turned, I jumped, I was pulled up and let down. And it was over. Had I run to the shore, I would have gotten just far enough to be hit. 

     Isn't this what friendships are made of? I think of the many friends who have stood by me, promising they've done this, they can relate, and it actually turns out to be okay. I have made it through my life because of friends like this. I think of names that will always be blazoned on my heart for the beautiful souls they represent. Those voices which held me up in my weak moments and smiled gleefully in my triumphs. The promises that I was strong enough, beautiful enough, patient enough elevated me to meet my life without running. Just turn your back to it and jump. You totally got this. Or, if nothing else, I am here. 

    So now I can do the waves with my son. I will laugh and scream and love it. 

Grace.

Some days I look for grace and other days it is everywhere, like crumbs on the kitchen floor. Today, I had to look. But not too far and not too hard.

The weather lately is mid 70's and sunny. This is hardly typical for the East coast in August, but most of us  take it without comment and hope it doesn't change. This is the kind of weather that beckons me into it then riddles me with guilt if I have to stay inside.

Today began with a smear of diarrhea across my forearm before I had my first cup of coffee. Quickly I scrubbed my arm and then tackled my baby with half a container of wipes and new diaper. Maiya begged me to download another game to my iPhone while Haven asked to take a turn with the phone as I stumbled into the kitchen toward my coffee. Once again I stayed up too late last night, clinging to those precious quiet hours as long as I could keep my eyes open. When my alarm sounded, through the static of the baby monitor, I rethought that choice for about the millionth time.

I sipped my coffee on the front porch, my favorite place in the morning. Tristan usually runs around barefooted, back and forth. Haven and Maiya sometimes join us, rocking in the chair opposite me, asking when they can watch TV or see their friends. Tristan climbed down the steps into the wet grass this morning. I expected him to recoil at the dampness, but he trotted through with a big smile. He stumbled and soaked his pants, but stood up and carried on toward whatever discovery lie ahead. For Tristan, discomfort is not deterrent to adventure.

Grace. That glimmer of beauty in a toddler's determination. That moment I can see past the inconvenience of changing his clothes (again) and the miracle that he is moving forward toward improvement and growth. 

I spent almost two hours waiting in the department of motor vehicle today. I visited the one in New Jersey and the one in New York. With three children. Somehow I have managed to come up short with documentation or my husband's presence on my two prior visits to the DMV.

"It's his car too. He has to be here." She said it like I was a scam artist, trying to sneak something past my husband by way of getting a copy of the car title.

"I live an hour away. And this is my second time here."

"There's nothing I can do."

I took the quickest deep breath I could, thanked her for the smidge of help she'd provided and corralled my gang back to the car.

All I would be able to do today is change my NJ license to a NY license. I hoped to switch the car registrations too. I thought of the harried mess I was that morning, trying to gather my documents. I could not find my license anywhere. I had lost it previously, replaced it and the replacement was gone. My husband helped me search. I became more and more irate with myself and sent the kids to the car to wait. This is a practice my mother used to do. I hated it then but I get it now. She'd send us to the car and after a ten minute wait, we would see her finally emerge with her arms full of the gear she would need to get us through the next several hours.

My frustration with myself became paramount but as I drove between the DMVs later that day, I thought of my husband's gentle help. We never found the license and this was truly a silly mistake on my part. But he didn't criticize, he didn't ask how I could be so absentminded. He just helped me look then wished me luck when I set out to the DMV. I felt so bad, but he didn't push me down further. He accepted my error and helped me.

Grace. That moment my limitations frustrate me but don't define me.

Our final stop: motor vehicle in Middletown, NY. Heavenhelpus. The parking lot was full and guilt dripped down my back as we walked through the beautiful day into the dank, crowded state building. I took a number. They have a tricky number system, and I thought I was only fifth in line, but it turned out I was probably fiftieth. I compulsively fed Cheerios to Tristan and bit my nails, hoping the battery on my cell phone would hold out as long this line. Haven and Maiya sat quietly, passing my phone between them, trying to beat the Candy Crush level I've been stuck on for weeks. I followed Tristan around the room for a while, he was thrilled, walking up to strangers, tapping them higher on the thigh than they might like then bolting off to another new face. I said a lot of sorrys and offered tiny laughs. I got a few dirty looks, but not more than I could handle. Eventually I saw that the clock was closing in on an hour of wait time. My phone battery died and I became wary of walking around apologizing to every grumpy person in the waiting room. I scooped Tristan into my arms and tried to console him with water. Haven was suddenly intensely bored and I tried to amuse him with alphabet I Spy. We got to G and then he stopped responding. Tristan began to scream, maniacal screams like a person who is confined against their will. Which he was. I decided to let him scream. Interestingly, it was our turn in five minutes.

As I hurried through a vision test and photo -- in which I did not look as awful as I felt, I might add -- the kids ambled around me and Tristan continued to moan.

"Mom! Can I go say goodbye to my new friend?" Maiya asked. I nodded and she ran to the blonde four-year-old she was chatting with during the time I had worked to keep Tristan's voice and my blood pressure down. The girls had learned they live in the same town. They laughed when the other little girl said Maiya could drive to her house and Maiya said she couldn't drive yet. They discussed the designs on their shirts.

Grace. That moment I see my little girl created fun in the chaos of waiting. My little girl who is often shy made a "new friend" at the ugly, boring DMV. 

This was not the best day of our summer vacation. But I now have a New York driver's license. (Actually, I have a temporary license and the new one will come in the mail. What in the world?!) More than the state of my driver's license, I was reminded of the grace that is present in the humdrum moments of life. There is beauty and hope and perseverance. If there weren't, I'd consider finding a babysitter next time I have to go to the DMV.