STORIES:

My Ocean - By Clare W. Miller

Beretta’s Renewal - By Vic Burke

Where God Wants Me - By Debra Ayers Brown

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My Ocean
By Clare W. Miller

From the moment I first saw it in Atlantic City when I was five years old, I was in love with the ocean and called these big waters “My Ocean.” Sure, others swam in it and enjoyed it, but somehow, it was my ocean, so enamored with it was I.

The Boardwalk was wonderful, with all the colors and lights and sounds, and the sights of the swimmers, the ladies with their black swim attire that covered their entire bodies from neck to ankle, and the men who were permitted to have their arms showing, and their legs exposed from the calf down. It was fascinating to me, a wide-eyed child, the youngest of eight children, and I thought my father was a genius to have given me this gift of the ocean. Despite the many attractions and distractions, my eyes would drift back to the sea, and my heart would fill with joy at the sight of it.

We only spent a few days there, but my ocean was solidly entrenched in my heart. It wasn’t until eight years later that my mother, sisters, and I returned to Atlantic City, not for a visit, but to live there. Papa had passed on when I was eight, and I yearned for him. But now I was thirteen, a young lady. The big crash of ‘29 had occurred and we were in the throes of the Great Depression. They were sad times for our family, but my heart filled with joy when we moved to Atlantic City. It was as though Papa was there, for the good memories of that first visit filled me and lifted me up.

Despite our sad financial position, Mama somehow managed to let me take dancing lessons, and I now had dreams of being a vaudeville dancer. I was a part of Dawson’s Dancing Dolls and loved dancing just a bit more than I loved my ocean. There was little money for recreation, so my neighborhood pals and schoolmates and I would spend our summer days at my ocean.

Those were wonderful times to this sixth grader. The Boardwalk had changed a little, and the ladies’ suits were a bit briefer, but my ocean remained the same, beautiful and welcoming. The cold waters didn’t bother us after the initial shock each day, and we splashed and played water games for a while, and then a group of us would swim down the channel to where Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant was located, and then come out and walk back to where we had started. It was quite a swim, and while I was not a good or a strong swimmer, I really loved doing this with my friends. Mostly I dog paddled my way with them.

One particular day, the waters were a little rougher, and I suddenly realized that I had lagged behind on the swim to Hackney’s. The current was pushing me toward the jetty, what we called “the rocks,” and I began to panic. The others had already passed that area and were out of sight. No one was on shore at this part, and I was on my own.

Thoughts of drowning in this 40-foot depth raced through my mind. I began to swallow water, and flayed my arms as I went down. I thought of my mother and my sisters, and how sad they would be. And I thought of my friends and wondered who would find me.

I came up and took a deep breath and tried to swim against the current, but made no headway. I was being pulled closer and closer to the jetty and was filled with the new fear of being crashed into the rough rocks and being knocked unconscious. I went under again, and thought, well, I guess there’ll be one less at the next Dawson’s Dancing Dolls.

Again, I came up, even closer to the jetty. I had never been this frightened in my entire life, and didn’t know what to do. I thought of my ocean, and how I loved it, and how now it was going to take me away from everything. Then I prayed. Now thoroughly exhausted, I prayed. I prayed to God, who could still the waters, to save me. I prayed to my ocean not to do this to me. I know I kept my arms and legs moving as I gasped, taking in huge gulps of air, but I don’t remember anything else except praying that I would not be struck on the rocks, and putting my faith and trust in God.

To this day, I don’t know how I wound up on the shore. The next thing I knew was that my friends, who had completed the swim and noticed I was not with them, came running up the beach to look for me. I was fully spent as my saturated and exhausted body lay crumpled there on the sand. No one else was around on this private beach, and I don’t know how long I was there before my pals found me.

I think about that day, and how my ocean almost claimed me, until I prayed. I am absolutely convinced that my prayers were heard, and that the ocean helped to save me by pushing me up on shore and away from the rocks. I never feared my ocean after that, and have remained eternally grateful to God, and to my ocean, for saving me that day.

Beretta’s Renewal
By Vic Burke

The noise wouldn’t quit. I was trying to complete an assignment for the Christian Writer’s Guild, but the sound kept on, in and out of my consciousness, like a mosquito around my head. It finally yanked me into distraction and I gave up trying to engage the creative process. Beretta was staring up at me with that always-sad face. I could see his sides contract with every whine.

Beretta was a Silky Terrier and a healthy sixteen years young. He’d lost much of his hearing the prior year, but no other signs of age had set in. Hunting was still his passion, and hunting occurred in the backyard.

He wanted out. 

I got up from my desk and followed his cocky little trot through the living room. He glanced back every few feet to confirm that I was there. I opened the back door and stepped behind it to let him out. He stared up a few seconds and strutted off into the living room. His stubby tail dismissed me.

“Okay,” I said, “back to the office.”

Moments later he was back, the face, the whining, the whole bit. I didn’t stand a chance.

Act II was Act I replayed. At the door, he stared, reached some conclusion regarding the ignorance of his master, gave me a snort and ambled off.

Was this my pooch? Beretta lived for casting his dominion over the backyard. His life’s purpose was patrolling his kingdom and declaring his sovereignty to the canine neighborhood.

But he wouldn’t go out.

I scratched my head on the way back to the office and barely parked myself before he was at my feet.

“What do you want?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

Seconds later, I opened the door, but this time I stepped behind him instead of behind the door. He darted down the steps, stopped and turned back with a look I didn’t recognize. My impression was that he wanted me to go with him. But this was the alpha male, the independent one, the hunter who ruled his fiefdom with no tolerance for interloping varmints or interfering masters. And yet, he wanted me with him.

I followed.

The Lord of the Yard darted off the patio, onto the grass and into his regime. He swept the yard with sharp eyes, checking for intruders.

No squirrels.

No moles.

He snorted his contempt for cowardly quadrupeds and strutted into his patrol.

He glanced back every few yards to make sure I hadn’t snuck back inside. I sat on the steps. He proceeded with his rounds.

Twenty minutes later, he’d finished. He’d secured his empire and barked his dominance to those contemplating invasion. He stopped in the yard and looked at me, seeking something. I didn’t know what it was, so I acted on instinct. I showed him I loved him.

I raised my hands and clapped, proclaiming my pleasure for this accomplished canine. He leaped forward, running in happy bounds to my feet. I praised his strength and prowess as he pranced, satisfied that he’d demonstrated his worth.

I opened the door. He trotted past me, up the steps, across the living room and into the office where he laid down by my desk. I sat down but didn’t work. Instead, I watched him close his eyes. Seconds later, he was snoring.

He’d wanted me with him. For whatever reason, he needed me and wouldn’t embark on his usual rounds without me. I, in turn, wanted to fulfill that need because I loved him.

One Sunday evening, a little over a year later, Beretta had a stroke. The next day, February 26, 2007, we sent him to a place where he could once again hunt with renewed vigor. I still miss the little fellow. Pictures of him bring a twinge to my heart and probably will for years to come.

But he did leave me one certainty to lean on in those times when my heart is breaking for him: he cherished me. In the sharing of a moment he found precious, he showed me that. And I love him for it.

Where God Wants Me
By Debra Ayers Brown

I’ve fretted about Meredith leaving for college for years. Would my only child find the right college? Would the teen that preferred reading to eating make new friends? Would piles of dirty clothes prevent access to her bed? Would she open her door to a stranger and become a co-ed victim on America’s Most Wanted?

These questions bombarded me each time I opened the mailbox and found stacks of college recruiting brochures. But a new fear emerged after junior year college visits.

Would she get in?

My husband Allen, Meredith, and I left sunny Savannah, Georgia to travel in a March blizzard to a slew of northeastern liberal art colleges that Meredith’s guidance counselor deemed a good fit for her. During the first presentation, the admission officer said, “Last year we received record numbers of applications. From the 7600 qualified entrants, we knew that most would succeed here, but we only had room for 700 in our freshman class. This year we’re expecting the largest applicant pool ever…double, even triple the numbers.”

We heard similar messages of fierce competition everywhere we visited. Meredith’s friends brought back comparable stories. One said, “What if we don’t get into any?”

Meredith shrugged. “I guess there are no gimme colleges this year.”

I worried throughout the summer and into the start of her senior year. The media fueled my concern with warnings of record numbers of college applicants vying for the same spots. I read that some of the colleges I had never heard of until Meredith’s guidance counselor suggested them were now considered America’s new Ivies.

“Have you lined up letters of recommendation?” I asked, planning our strategy. “When is the next SAT given?”

“Mom, relax,” urged my polar opposite, as she positioned her headphones on her ears. “I’m the one going to college.” She focused on her iPod selection. “And I’ll get it done.”

But I didn’t see any action. The more I pushed, the less she produced. The more I tried to get her motivated about working on her application, the more we argued about everything.

“How are you going to survive in college when you can’t even clean your room?” I snatched dirty clothes off the floor and threw them in the hamper. “But first, you have to apply to get in.” I moved to the hall. “I’ll help you, but you have to––”

“I don’t want your help.” She slammed the bedroom door. “I want to get in on my own.”

“Fine,” I snapped.

The heat of anger turned to grief. My daughter didn’t want me involved in this important chapter in her life.

“It’s hard because I’ve always been organized, a planner,” I vented to my mom.

She laughed. “Not when you were a teen.” She pulled me close. “Let her be. She’ll get into a college that is the best fit for her … It may not be your first choice, but it needs to be hers.”

Mom’s advice stayed with me as I opened e-mails. One inspirational message said, “Trust in the Lord. He will guide you to where he wants you to be.”

A sense of relief flowed through me. I didn’t have to be in control. All I had to do was turn my worries over to Him. I wrote “Where Gods Wants Me” on a yellow sticky note and placed it above my computer screen.

“I’m proud of you, Meredith,” I said to her that night. “Any college will be fortunate to have you.”

She looked up at me. “Do you really think so?”

“I do.” I pulled her close. Instead of SAT scores and grade point averages, I thought of dance recitals and bedtime stories, first crushes and new best friends, good decisions and the life lessons learned from her missteps. I was proud of the young adult in my arms. “You are smart, talented, and independent.” I laughed. “Your grandmother says you are just like me.”

She squeezed my hand. “That’s not so bad, I guess.” We talked into the night, and she shared her fears about leaving home. I did my best to reassure her.

Every time I lapsed into trying to take over the college process, I read the sticky note. Soon “Where God Wants Me” was an automatic response to my desire to control. The more I relaxed, the more Meredith turned to me.

In no time, she’d completed her college applications and received her decision letters. The summer after graduation rushed to mid-August, and we moved Meredith and what seemed to be all her worldly belongings to a small dorm room in North Carolina. As we met the other incoming freshmen, their parents, and college administrators, my sense of impending loss turned to excitement. I could relax and make the long drive home knowing that I had supported Meredith’s college search and her decision.

She was where God wanted her to be.