Saying Grace

One of the abiding pleasures of running races is the enjoyment derived from eating delicious food afterward.  Our friend Jim, who passed away two years ago at the age of 82 - an extraordinary award-winning runner - was once quoted in the Asheville Citizen-Times on this topic.  He was being interviewed at the finish of the Biltmore 15-K and he said, "I run so I can eat!"  I suppose that's a variation on the question, "Do you live to eat, or eat to live?"  It is true, though, that food always tastes better after a race, and the pleasure is directly proportionate to the distance of the run.  I well remember those protein-filled dinners after marathons in Huntsville or elsewhere, and especially the breakfasts the next morning.

Although it was only a 5-K that I had completed on Saturday, Martha convinced me that I should derive the same enjoyment from a hearty breakfast, and it was not difficult to convince me.  So we drove to the Four Corners Diner in Atlantic Beach for exactly that.  Open Year Round, the sign proclaims on the outside of this iconic building at the main intersection.  The inside looks like an old timey diner, all chrome and curves and booths with plastic-covered menus, and huge baskets containing packets of butter and jams and jellies of every imaginable flavor.

It is always appropriate to return thanks before eating, and this has become an ingrained habit for us, even if it amounts to a mere non-denominational "We have a lot to be thankful for!"  A prayer of thanks does not need to be lengthy, after all.  I remember Rev. Charlie Parrish, our long-time Sunday School teacher and retired preacher once unexpectedly returning thanks at a Church supper with the venerable, "Good food, good meat; good God, let's eat!"  And he meant every word.

So I was touched as we walked up the ramp inside the Four Corners to see a man and a woman sitting at a table with bowed heads.  How sweet! I thought.  It reminded me of that famous Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover, "Saying Grace."

It is a beautiful painting, and I have always especially appreciated the reverence with which those two young street-smart non-praying men on the left, cigarette dangling from a mouth, look on in quiet awe as a mother and her son are praying.

My illusion was shattered as we sat down across from the young couple and noticed that they had their cell phones in their laps, on which they were doubtless completing some useless business.  "Checking in at the Four Corners," perhaps.  Our own breakfast was delicious, and after returning to the condo, we drove across the bridge to the Methodist Church again:  Communion Sunday, no cell phones, and real praying.

During the afternoon, the wind picked up again, making it uncomfortable to be out on the beach.  I donned wind breaker and gloves and hat late in the afternoon and went out on the dune-top deck, only to return in a little while.  One of our neighbors, though - a woman we have seen before from the condo - walked past me on the walkway toward the beach, straw hat flapping wildly in the wind.  "Not too bad if you bundle up against the wind," I said.  She replied, "As long as my hat stays on!  If my hat comes off, I come back in!"  Her hat stayed on - it must have been attached with a strong cord under her chin - and she stayed out on the beach for a long time beside the churning ocean.

Superbowl Sunday - Game Day!  The highly-anticipated spectacle got underway, we understand, sometime late in the afternoon.  We are not fans of professional football, although I genuinely appreciate the game itself and the skill and athleticism and team strategy that is involved.  I am more likely to watch a marathon or the Olympic trials, which football fans would find as exciting as watching paint dry.  We watched excerpts from the half-time show on our computers this morning, though, and I'm glad we did not tune in.  What a tasteless spectacle!  And the music was absolutely awful, we both thought.  So I do not apologize for spending the evening reading our books and listening to the wild wind outside the windows.

What a difference 12 hours can make!  We awoke this morning to temperatures in the 50s and just a light breeze blowing.  Not only that, but the tide has once again turned in our favor, working its way through another cycle so that low tide occurs in the morning - 8:52 a.m. this morning.  I was out the door on a three-mile run a minute or two after that, Martha not far behind me.  I turned into the Fort Macon Picnic Area and from there down onto the beach.  It was wide and flat and glorious, and if not for my tiring legs I could have run all morning, dodging the slowly incoming tide, the piles of sea foam, and little sanderlings skittering out of the way.  What a beautiful morning, and how good it felt to be alive!  I am thankful for every day, but especially for days like this one.  On the horizon, a big freighter was shimmering in the morning sun, making its way unhurriedly into Morehead City.

I showered and dressed and sat on the balcony, watching for Martha to return from her own run on the beach - five miles, all the way to Fort Macon.  In a little while I saw her shape, walking up the ramp to the dune-top deck, throwing up an arm when she saw me.   I could tell by her beaming face that she, too, had had an exceptionally good run.  I had wondered if I would see her on the beach - whether we would "meet on the beautiful shore," in the words of the hymn - but of course she had gone farther than I had.

"What a wonderful run!" she said as she came into the condo.  "We are so fortunate, aren't we?"  I agreed, and (I hope it is not too personal to say so in this blog,) we simply stood hugging each other for awhile here in the living room.

Saying Grace for another day.