The 52nd Week

51 weeks ago we left Hatteras Village.
We said goodbye to the Outer Banks.
We prayed we'd be blessed to come back.

 And today we are.


What does that say about us?
That we wait 51 weeks to return to paradise?
That we have nothing to live for until we're back here?
I hope not.
That'd be all wrong.

Still, this - of course - is all right.

Hatteras Village, at the southern tip of Hatteras Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is the perfect mix of wet salty air and sweet ocean breezes. It's the end of the island for cars. Huh, it was an island of its own after Hurricane Irene blew through last fall.  Even now, it's remote.  And that's why we like it.

There's a Dairy Queen up island, but not a single fast food restaurant or even a stop light here. We don't eat out when we're here. We just go to Vicki at Harbor House Seafood to pick up fresh shrimp or tuna or whatever her husband and son caught that day. We've never gone wrong by Vicki. (She taught Curt how to steam pounds of shrimp to perfection.)

In year's past, we've spent at least half our days on the ORV (off-road-vehicle) beaches here. This year, though, as of February, drivers must get a $50 permit to drive the National Park beaches here, and a majority of the coastline is closed to ORV use right now. I am happy for the turtle and bird hatchings that the closures are helping, but I'm bummed for selfish reasons. (Honestly? Our government will protect baby turtles and birds but baby humans can be killed at will? Oh, but that's another issue for another time.) 

We may still fork over the $50 to head out to the Billy Mitchell Airport ramp and spend a day or two on an ORV beach. It's one of two that we'd choose to drive to. The other is the Point, where Cape Hatteras Lighthouse shines. Thing is, the ORV beaches are the best for finding shells at this time of year. Just as the boys love to ride the waves, I love to find shells. Conch shells abound at the Point. I really wanna be there, with my conchs.

Wendi and the Conchs. That's what I sing.

 It always tickles me how the kids take to the water like they never left. 51 weeks were a blip to them.

Their sea legs come back strong. 

They find waves on instinct and sheer will. 

They hang ten and a belly button to the very end. And they grin. How they flash those grins.  

 We're blessed to be here. We know that. We sit here on comfy couches in climate controlled rooms watching HGTV. We don't even have HGTV at home, on account of we're cableless. We know God has called us to do more than just be here. He surely has a plan for all this grandeur. Cause, let's not mince words, that's what this place is.


Grandeur on a LARGE scale.

So, what are we to do with this calling? This one seven-day week out of the 52 that we have been saving for and dreaming of for 51 weeks? What would the God of the universe want us to accomplish here in what we perceive to be paradise? In one single week?

Huh. That's a tough one.
And I don't have an answer.
But I know that while we're here, while we're bemoaning the closure of the Point ORV ramp and scouring the local book store up at Frisco and steaming fresh shrimp on our electric stove and watching closely for rip currents, we know we're supposed to be about the business of God.

What in the world does He want us to do here this summer? 

 I pray we find out. I don't want to miss out on a chance to obey. To be a part of his plan. To be a blessing.

Because God has certainly blessed us.