The Not-so-faithful community

"When I die, I want you to do my funeral," he said.

"I'd prefer you hang around," I replied.

So far ... he's the only one who has.

I run the beach every morning, bandana on my head, I-Pod in my ears, keeping an eye on the ocean. Between songs I hear the crunching of the tiny shells under my feet. The ocean is flat and quiet with waves barely breaking as they kiss the shore. The sand dunes are high layered with green and gold sea oats. The sky is brilliantly blue. Paddle boarders look like a crippled Jesus walking on the water.

As I made my way, I'd see them all.

Otto, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white wrist bands and white shoes was tall and skinny. He carried dumb bells and when he saw me would wave one high in the air and shake it at me. His broad grin shooting warmth and happiness my way,

Beside him was his wife Carol limped because of a bad hip, also smiled and waved. It was always funny because Otto was running and she was walking but they were always side-by-side.

Artie, my neighbor, runs towards me and stops to talk in the middle of our run. I jog in place but he stops and we discuss college football or whatever the island gossip happens to be. We only chat a minute because we'll see each other again when I take Goddess for my cool down walk. He give her dog treats and we'll take our time talking as good friends do.

Mr. Moody was a retired college professor and is Muslim. He walks rather than runs and dresses like an Indian. He smiles broadly as I pass and asks if I've seen Artie. I point behind me and continue my way down the beach.

Alan would pretend to be fishing though he was really checking out the girls in bikinis strolling in the surf. In all of those years I never saw him catch a fish.

Every morning, for a few moments anyway, we were a family, checking on each other and growing concerned if someone was missing for more than a day or so.

Once Artie got us all together at his house for oysters and beer. Everyone came and for one hot summer evening we laughed and learned about each other. Otto was an Episcopal Priest. Moody's wife was a college professor too. Alan was retied and told fish stories keeping me in stiches. Artie is an Auburn wife and his wife Wanda is a substitute teacher.

All those years ago when Artie asked me to perform his funeral ... "Actually, I just want you to say a few words to whoever shows up for the one hour open bar I'm going to have. My picture will be on the bar. Say something nice about me and then drink up!" ... neither of us knew that we'd be the only ones left.

Moody died first and then Carol did too. Otto moved away. Alan disappeared.

Now it's just Artie and me though Sarah runs too and is making herself a part of the community of the not-so-faithful. Joe Nettles is out there most mornings. Tourists come and go, joining us for a few days before making their way home again.

Making my way this morning, I found myself thinking about them all.

The dunes are higher now. Sub-Tropical vegetation grows between the dunes. The beach is broader and wider than it's been in years. Tiny crosswalks have been replaced by long ones. Everything else is the same ... the grey white sand, the green grey water, the brilliant blue skies, tanker ships and shrimp boats, seagulls and dolphins.

"Hey God!" I say out loud.

"Bless them all! Thank you for them. Thank you for Sarah. Thank you for all of this."

In the distance I can make out Artie running towards me as a dolphin jumps out of the water letting me know that God heard everything I said.