As September comes up around the bend and a year of new beginnings, I am thinking about launchings…
In the hallowed cracking of dark, slivers of light from mystical east line the waters silver. The dark of waves lapping from the west, foamy from their night’s ride, roar at last onto white, wet sand.
This boy of mine, tawny and lean, dips his feet in crashing waters. For the first time I see glimpses of a man muscling about under his summer brown skin. The sharp twinge of it—of the emerging man and the fading boy—makes me catch my breath.
I sit on sand, watching. He has come to to carry out his plan. He has read all winter of rafts, he has dreamed and envisioned and now the time has come, here in the glinting of day by sterling sea.
He lugs the driftwood together, legs straining, taut and rippled. He attempts to construct on silver edge, the water crashing and carrying his wood. She deceives him, licking and luring his logs away with her.
I cringe at his struggle.
Calling his name above the rhythmic crash, I instruct him to build nearer to me, away from the water.
“But how will I get my raft back to water?”
Together, I say,Together we can drag it back.
He concedes and begins knotting and lashing the driftwood together on higher ground. Yes, best to build one’s vessel out of the pounding surf, closer to mother.
He looks about for an anchor—a rock to tie to his raft for stability. He lashes a large one to his vessel.
I raise my eyebrows wondering.
He reads my mind, asking, “Will it work?”
Noncommittally, I shrug my shoulders. He assures us both: “I will try.”
Yes, try. That is all one can do when building a craft to withstand the relent beating of life—try, try.
He builds and wrestles, lashes and knots. I think he is ready to launch.
The waves scare me. I say nothing.
Finished, he sits in front of the completed craft on the sand, as if to protect it from line after line of rising waves.
I watch him as he watches the sea. We both eye the relentless swells. He turns back to my safe perch on the beach, “Strong undertow.”
I nod. I know.
Will he launch this rickety raft and set sail, clinging to the slippery, water worn scraps of of wood, fulfilling this boyhood dream?
Will he embark on this voyage, this almost man? I cannot tell him not to. But I want to.
Pulling up his lanky brown he comes out of the surf. He looks at his raft, then turns away, heading to the stairs up from the beach front. He stops beside me, raising his voice above the thundering waves to say, “Maybe when I am gone another child will use it.”
I want to say But you have dreamed so long, worked so hard—and now no maiden voyage?
No, he is ready to go home with his mama. He is only testing manhood. He is not ready yet.
And neither, quite, am I.
Lord, this boy of mine is growing into a man. Give me new eyes to see him. Give him wisdom as he prepares for his launching. And give both of us courage to be ready.
Repost from the archives…
