An inner fizz of anticipation as little markers signal: “Oakland Airport: Next Exit,” “Economy Parking,” “Your flight is about to land.” A man in a neon vest holding a red flashlight guides a plane into its gate, a carefully orchestrated ballet which I seldom notice when I’m the one flying. But today is different: I’m meeting the flight of two “unaccompanied minors,” my granddaughters. When I filled in the form about their identity, I was tempted to write “heart’s delight” or “dearest treasure” in the blanks.
There’s a flurry of people disembarking as I wait close to the door, then Finally: first granddaughter in red sweatshirt, Big Hug, then a second close behind: group hug. It’s the culmination of several months of planning: the confluence of their parents’ 30th college reunion in Colorado, a school holiday, the chance to reunite four grandchildren in the Bay area with two from Seattle, a beach house to hold us all in a favorite area. I sign the paperwork; the attendant takes our picture to reassure their parents, and we’re off to meet the rest of the family.
One of the special treats of summer at the beach is fresh strawberries from the surrounding fields; I’m thrilled to find the stand still open in October. Over the next three days, we buy three half-flats which we all devour with glee. Then the discoveries of a new condo: a kids’ room with bunk beds, a porch overlooking the ocean, boxes of beach toys on another balcony; the remote control to light the fireplace, and a well-hidden switch for the dining room light. Excitement runs high; everyone talks at once; we’re so glad to see each other since we haven’t been together since June. It feels like all the happiness one heart can hold.
Meaning comes from the braiding of word with experience, and this weekend, the two are well met. Earlier this week, I’d read on Richard Rohr’s website about “vestigia Dei,” the Latin term meaning that all things are likenesses of God. How true of special people in a beautiful place. He continued (October 5), that we experience incarnation everywhere and all the time, not only in religious, churchy spaces. The ocean is vast, deep and endless—like divine love. And the children are unique sparks of that love, each one with individual quirks and talents. The two meet when they run into the surf shrieking at the cold, jumping the waves, diving in, tumbling and fishing each other out. They never seem to mention the frosty water temperature, or tire of the activity. But their small dark silhouettes against the dazzling play of light on water speak powerfully of the shining in creation, which surrounds always, noticeable when we have eyes to see.
Some traditions have become ritual: opening the curtains to the first view of the sea in the morning, singing grace before dinner as we hold hands, building elaborate sand castles, playing board games by the fireplace, loading up from the welcome basket of candy at the main office, star gazing, tennis and running, gooey chocolate desserts, snuggling together with lots of blankets on the long couch for a movie at night. The oldest granddaughter paints beautiful watercolors so we’ll remember these scenes; the others follow her lead. I’d read N.T. Wright’s idea that heaven isn’t some distant future: it’s right now. Heaven seeds earth in peak moments like these. So when we finally die and enter paradise, it will seem familiar. It may look like a beach house full of children.
