November

The sun reflected off of the water, glistening and sparkling. The man stood at the edge, the tip of his staff touching the water which lapped against the sand. The grizzled old man watched as the sun began setting on the horizon. The blueish gray water seemed to go on forever and he frowned at the sight of a large, commercial ship in the distance.

He grumbled and rubbed his speckled salt and pepper beard with one hand.“Darn commercialism. Can’t find a better spot to sail.” He adjusted his blue sweater and sniffed the salty air. Perfect. Just like it’d always been.

The man had tan, weathered skin. Slightly wrinkled from the salty, harsh wind, but he had young eyes. The air kept his lungs clear and the breeze tangled his shaggy, curly gray hair under his brown and well-worn flat cap.

Seagulls cawed and screeched at each other. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but to the man, it was home. He limped to his usual spot, a log with a worn, smooth spot. It had been where he’d sat every day in the evening for the last ten years. The log knew his routine, and he knew the log’s every ring and rough knob. He eased onto the log and leaned his staff against it. He grunted. Then he began whistling his tune. The ocean knew his song, and he knew the ocean’s every secret, every roaring whisper.

The song was something the birds had heard every day. They knew his schedule, just like the ocean did, just like the log did. They knew the man and his staff, and probably even knew of his Wendolyn. They knew about his past life, and his present life. They knew the time he arose from bed to the time he went to bed. They knew all of the secrets about the house perched on the hill.

After his song, the old man stared out at the sea, and grabbed his staff. He tapped it on the ground in front of him while he sat there and then finally stood up. He took cautious steps, his leather boots sinking into the sand. Finally, he walked up the water again, dropping his staff in the sand. It made a soft “thump” sound, sinking into the cold, damp sand.

The seagulls knew what was coming. The log and the ocean did too. The man fell to his knees, ignoring the slight wetness in the sand. He didn’t mind the water splashing up to him. It was familiar, like a friend.

The man began to talk. Not anything that you could understand. But by this time, the seagulls, log, and ocean had heard it hundreds of times. They knew what he was saying. They knew Who he was talking to.

It sounded like gibberish. But it wasn’t. It was holy talk, something the man had never quite understood himself. But he knew that it was good and he knew that the Giver had heard him. He continued his mumbling and muttering, the odd sounds leaving his lips like a poem, or perhaps a song. As he prayed, the man saw a dove flying from across the water. But that water was the ocean. There wasn’t land from that direction for hundreds of miles.

The man smiled. He knew who it was. He’d never seen or met the dove before, but he knew. The seagulls, ocean, and log knew. Extending his arm, the man opened his hand and the dove perched on it. The man didn’t stop his mumbling, but continued talking while he watched the dove with a careful eye.

The dove suddenly opened its mouth and spoke in a voice so loud yet barely audible. “Your time has come. Are you ready?”

Wendolyn. He’d see her soon. But first—he’d be seeing the Giver. The Maker, the Father, the One. How soon! How unexpected! Finally. It had been far too long since he’d awaited this moment. The man nodded, and held up a finger. He whispered, “Adonai. I am coming.” With that, he looked up at the sky and mumbled one last thing in his odd yet perfect language and then nodded again. He picked up his staff but the dove said, “You won’t be needing that.” The man paused. “Right.”

The seagulls watched as the man—for the first time in over ten years—left the staff on the sand. They watched with fascination as he turned around and nodded at the log, and then nodded at the ocean, and finally at the seagulls. He could have sworn he saw them nod back at him. Then he turned back to the dove, still on his hand, and grunted. “I’m ready.”

He cleared his throat. He’d been ready for this his whole life, but for it to actually happen was so surreal. A promise finally come true. The man didn’t look back at the house perched on the hill, but stared straight ahead at the sunset. Perfect.

The dove seemed to smile at him. He took flight over the water and the man followed, where he was taken to his Father, his Giver, the One.

And he was gone.

Two Months Later

The house was empty. Spiderwebs filled the corners and a half-empty coffee cup was frozen from the chilly winter. The bed was unmade and messy, its sheets wrinkled. The kitchen was covered in dust and dead flies. The windows were covered in frost.

On the beach, the log sat in its spot, but it hadn’t had a visitor in a while. The ocean waved at the log, missing its old friend who knew its secrets and stories. The seagulls screeched at each other, no longer able to enjoy their evening song with the old man.

A certain staff lay at the edge of the water. It hadn’t moved, despite the tide coming in and out. It lay there, almost as a reminder of who had lived there. To the ocean, log, and seagulls, it was the most familiar piece of the scene. They enjoyed its company during the lonely evenings. Ever since that November afternoon, there’d been no one to whistle with. No one to sit with. No one to smell the salty air with. But that was okay. They’d had their moment. Now it was the old man’s turn to share his moments with his Maker.