Sharla Dawn Gorder

Early November—I walked the shore at dawn with Shuba.  The seashells on the beach were so broken up—crushed actually—by the recent storms, that they kind of felt good under my feet.  Almost like scratching an itch I didn’t know I had.  I still like the broken ones.

I walked east in the crunchy sand toward my daily rendezvous with the sunrise. A gray flannel robe of clouds cloaked the horizon.  I suspected He would be late.  We were scheduled to meet at 6:05 AM sharp.  Sometimes He is late.  He can get away with it.  He is God.  He gets away with lots of stuff.

I turned back toward the house enjoying the feel of the shells between my toes, the sight of Shuba jamming her snout into crab holes, the sound of the Gulf, now finally relaxing after too many storms.  And then, I felt some pink in the air.  Yes, you can feel the color of a sunrise even before you see it, and I looked back.

6:05 AM.  Magenta rising.  My favorite.  In the big box, the Crayola 64, magenta was always my favorite color.  Light broke the dark horizon line in a glowing pink arc.  And then it was gone, shrouded behind the heavy drape of clouds.

But it rose for me, and showed itself for a moment to me—this broken girl at dawn on the shore.

Daddy died on a Friday.  We weren’t expecting it; we were expecting it.  We weren’t ready; we were ready.   We were distraught; we were relieved.  For 17 days we stood vigil at the hospital, my sister and brother and me, silently begging him to live even while struggling to find a pen to sign his permission slip to be excused from this life.  His last days in that mechanical bed were truly awful.  Even at 88, he did not give up without a fight.  When he died, Jem stood in the middle of the room like a bewildered orphan and said, “The roof is gone.”   Mom and Dad are both gone now, one right after the other it seems.

At the memorial we held in his assisted living facility, we sang that old Peaches and Herb song—Reunited.  In 70 years, Mom and Dad had never been apart for more than a few days when Daddy would travel for business.  I guess Daddy decided that eight months was just too long.  He had to go.

We had a second memorial in a little clearing on a piece of farmland in his hometown.  We planted a fig tree.  Old friends and relatives gathered around and told stories.  My cousin, Todd, read a poem.  And as soon as he read the title, To be of Use, my heart just about burst with kinship and love.  How did he know?  He had seen my Daddy only a couple of times in decades.  How did he understand Daddy’s ultimate passion, his raison d’etre?

This is truly all my Daddy wanted—To Be of Use.  The poem is by Marge Piercy, and though she didn’t know it, she wrote it about James M. Sullivan Sr.  She wrote it about my Dad.

Todd stood by the little sapling and in a quavering voice began to read about my Daddy who loved the land and the work of the land that is “common as mud” who strained in that mud “and the muck to move things forward…to do what has to be done again and again.”

That was Daddy.   In work—he was a farmer, planting forests of trees he knew he would never see grow tall.   In love—he was my mother’s caregiver till the very end of her dementia and her life.  In spirit—he loved and served the God of his understanding with unflagging devotion and child-like enthusiasm even till the awful end, when I, myself, was furious with God for allowing this devoted disciple to suffer so.  (I’m still a little ticked.)

The poem ended with the words:  “The pitcher cries for water to carry/and a person for work that is real.”  And when Daddy’s real work on Earth was done—his farmlands tended by his boy; his bride in the arms of Jesus Himself; and God’s message of redemption offered to every soul he encountered—his body died, a vessel emptied out and used up, to a good and holy purpose.  And his spirit moved on.

Already, I miss his big farmer’s hands.  I regret the times when I would visit and pull my hands away from his before he was ready.  He’d playfully clasp tighter as I began my goodbyes after lunch. Usually, I would stay another moment or two, then unlace our intertwined fingers, kiss him on the top of the head, and leave.  The last time I held his hands, the hour of his death, he gripped my right hand so tightly that I couldn’t pull away. He clutched Sandee’s hand in his left.  And then—how did it happen like that?—He let go.  His grip slackened.  I remember that more than the absence of breath or of heartbeat, though my head was on his chest, ear pressed to his heart.  He let go of my hand before I let go of his.  He had to, I suppose.  It was the first time.  It was the last time.  I’m trying not to blame him for that.

I can be a little whiney about those things.  Daddy loved to tell the story of the time—I must have been about four—when I climbed to the top of the swing set at the little park by our house.  I’m not sure how I got up there all by myself, but Daddy was only a few yards away when he heard me hollering, and looked up to see me dangling from the crossbar.  He ran to rescue me, but alas, I couldn’t hold on.  In the car on the way to the ER to get stitched up, I wailed, “Deddy, why didn’t you catch me?  You should’ve run faster.”

And I still want him to be there for me.  Of course, I do.  I’ve never known it any other way.  But I’m a big girl now, and I know that it’s my turn to be of use and to do what has to be done again and again, and to try to catch people when they’re falling, and to hold their hands, and to tell them happy news about God, and to love them through their very best and very worst.

Seems like a lot.  But Daddy never complained, and neither will I.

The sun rose this morning for Shuba and me though it seemed more reluctant than usual.  That mattress of clouds at the horizon complicated things.  Sometimes things are complicated.  But still the sun rises; life goes on.

Grief is complicated.  I would think it would be familiar by now, and thereby easier for me.  I’ve done this sad dance over and over the last couple of years—Jenna, Vanessa, Mom and Dad.  Aren’t you supposed to get good at things with practice?  Ah, maybe I am.  I will say that I am less afraid, less cynical, less resistant.  Anne Lamott writes:  “Grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.”  I have found this to be true.

But still I am broken this morning, crushed actually, like those shells in pink dawn light.  I miss my father.  I miss my mother.  I fear I will be sand soon.  But that’s okay.  Maybe I will become the gorgeous white quartz sand that this island is famous for.

Bring a pail and a little shovel.  You can build a castle out of me on the beach.  I don’t mind.  In fact, I think, I’d like that.  Let me be of use in some small way.

And the beat goes on.  Thanks, Daddy.

 

I’m on a mission, y’all.  I’m in arts and crafts mode.

Spring has come early, it seems, and the Gulf is finally relaxing in its bed.  What a crazy winter it has been—torrential rains, giant swells, punishing winds.   And tornadoes!  It’s hard to believe looking out there this morning, that just days ago EF-2 and 3 tornadoes ravaged our town.  Prayers to all of those affected.  (And help, if you are able; there are many GoFundMe accounts that have been set up to provide assistance to some of the affected families.  Here is one for my brother’s nephew, wife and baby (Rich Adams):   https://www.gofundme.com/zaqy5xdw  They lost all of their material possessions, but were rescued, miraculously, without any major injuries.)

Yes, it’s hard to believe this morning, looking out over the deserted beach to the glistening Gulf beyond, that this place could be anything but postcard pretty—Greetings from Florida, the Land of Sunshine.  Ah yes, there is a warm abundance of sunshine this morning, and now, after all those storms, there is a bounty of seashells as well.

That’s the part I like best.  All of my life I wanted to be the She-sells seashells-by-the-seashore-girl.  Now I am.  Actually though, I’ve never been much good at sales, so I’m more the She-shares-seashells-by-the-seashore-girl.  What I have, I will share with you.  And what I have now are an abundance of broken shells.  They are beautiful.

For the longest time I only picked up the whole ones.  I searched and searched for perfect unchipped seashells after storms.  As a young teenager, I would ride my bike out to Fort Pickens Point from my house in Gulf Breeze, a good 15 miles, to search for shells.  I still remember the first time I found a Scotch Bonnet, my favorite of all beach treasures.  I was combing the beach, sunburned and thirsty and dreading the long ride home when I rounded the Point and stopped to look out over the pass.  I sat down in a little tide pool, and dug my fingers into the sand and scooped up a dripping handful of shards and shells and quartz.  And there it was, small and bleached bright white and perfectly formed—my first Scotch Bonnet.

I must have been 14 or 15 then, and to this day, some 40 years later, I have only found three or four more whole Scotch Bonnets.  Unbroken shells are rare, especially after a season of pounding surf.  Only the Olives seem to consistently wash up on the beach whole, and that’s only because they are so thick, and closed in around themselves—protected.

But I usually leave them be—for the tourists to pick up and take home.  Because now I like the broken ones.  Really.  Not just metaphorically.  Like I said, I’m on a mission, and only broken shells will do.

I’m making a wreath of broken Whelks.  My awesomely creative friend, Alana, made one a couple of years ago and let me borrow it for the holidays, and it brought me such delight that I decided to make one myself.  Only mine will be in the shape of a peace sign.  (And this is where the metaphor takes off.)

Every shell in Alana’s wreath is broken, and that’s what makes it so beautiful.  If they weren’t broken open at the top, I wouldn’t be able to see inside.  The wreath would have less depth and complexity.  And it is the fact that they are ALL broken in some way that makes this work of art so profound to me.

 

We are all broken open in some way.  Every last one of us.  And that is a good thing.  More light and air and truth gets in that way.  When I see a broken shell, I don’t think, “Oh, this is chipped, I need to fix it.”  No, now I look out over the Gulf and think, “Wow, this little treasure has been through a lot to get here.  It’s beautiful.”

You, little treasure, have been through a lot to get here, and you are beautiful.  I know this because I have met you and talked to you and laughed with you and cried.  I am drawn to you, broken ones, because I am broken too and we are in this wreath together.

The places where one shell is broken fits the contours of another shell that is whole on that side but perhaps chipped on the other.  And that space accommodates the next shell in the wreath, and that is how a community is built.  We nestle together in our shared struggles and triumphs and make something lovely of our world.

I may not look chipped and cracked and hollowed out to you at first glance; I clean up pretty good.  But I will tell you this:  It wasn’t until I allowed myself to be broken open, to be honest with myself and entirely vulnerable and truthful with someone I trusted, that my life changed in ways I could never have imagined.  And to my utter surprise, I learned that that person was broken too, and that we had a wreath to make.  Speak up if you are struggling.  There’s a space for you in the circle.

A space for you in the peace sign.  This brokenness, this shared vulnerability is the key to my serenity—my peace of mind.  I’m gathering shells on the beach to make my peace wreath.  It will take hundreds and hundreds, but I’m in no hurry.  There will always be a fresh supply of broken shells on the shore. Of that I’m sure.

This morning I went out with my little shell bag and headed east along the shore-break.  I had walked for less than a minute when I came to the first little patch of crunched up shells.  I crouched down and the first shell I reached for—I am not making this up—was a Scotch Bonnet, broken almost beyond recognition.

It is my favorite.