It was there we spent July 4th, 1990.
We declared our independence and celebrated our freedom.
With permission to drive his step-mom’s brown Ford station-wagon,
We drove further than she would know.
We were sixteen, and with wild abandon we took off like two birds on their first flight.
And though we weren’t the first in flight to that destination, the two who were first in flight chose that same destination.
And so we drove, two hours to be exact.
We listened to Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic”
We drank Coke, laughed, and looked forward to seeing the ocean.
We arrived and climbed Jockey’s Ridge in time to watch the sunset on the scenic sound.
We talked about school, music, movies, and relationships.
Within a month I would discover Matthew’s account of Jesus, St. Paul’s letter to Galatia,
and celebrate a different kind of independence and freedom:
independence from the demands of the law,
and freedom from the burden of guilt.
I would experience flight once again, but flight from the fear of sin and death.
I would sail, not out of the world, but into the mystic of the world.
I have returned repeatedly to that stretch of beauty on the Atlantic,
I have kept in touch, if even sporadically, with my friend.
And I have become increasingly convinced
that the beauty of the earth and the joy of friendship
testify that Someone has made us, is giving Himself to us,
and is holding all things together by sheer grace.
It was there.
