At seven fifteen, I whisper to my husband, “Do you
want to go to the Church of the Jetty?” By
eight, we are there. I’ve written about
it here and here, but each time we go, it's worth repeating. A dry summer morning. The August sun, low on the horizon, forces us
to squint in spite of sunglasses. This
time, the motor is broken on the dinghy so we row
across, accompanied by a chorus of “Go Tell it On the Mountain” from the harbor church service on the porch of the Sailing Club.
We anchor the boat close in, take the long
walk down the barrier beach and hip-hop the jetty to the end, sweatshirts off by
the time we get there. Seagulls
cough, and cluck at the edges of tide pools. A lobsterman navigates the Miss Jane through the channel. Once we drain our coffees, we fanny crawl down the low-tide rocks to the tidal flats, where baby fountains squirt up from the quahogs and razor clams beneath. Crystal air and gleaming water. Two herons stick walking across the flats. Hot bugs warming up in the marsh grass. Washboard waves in the wet sand wearing three-pronged footprints.
cough, and cluck at the edges of tide pools. A lobsterman navigates the Miss Jane through the channel. Once we drain our coffees, we fanny crawl down the low-tide rocks to the tidal flats, where baby fountains squirt up from the quahogs and razor clams beneath. Crystal air and gleaming water. Two herons stick walking across the flats. Hot bugs warming up in the marsh grass. Washboard waves in the wet sand wearing three-pronged footprints.
An hour later, we walk the long way back to the boat, to the lawn mowing, the
grocery shopping, the week ahead planning, holding to a kernel. All day long we’ll clutch the essence of this, grateful for a summer morning that had its start, surrounded by images of prayer.
