The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
I stepped outside our beachside inn and breathed in the salty air—the scent of summer, joyful memories, and every perfect family vacation. It carried echoes of laughter, long beach walks, and early-morning shell hunts.
“Come on, Momma! The sun will be up before we get there,” my seven-year-old daughter Meredith called, swinging her bucket and tossing her towel over her arm.
Her flip-flops slapped against the concrete as we passed the pool and descended the wooden steps to the beach below.
“We’re right on time,” I said, spreading our towels and watching the sky catch fire in shades of pink, yellow, and red, reflecting onto the water with quiet majesty.
We sat alone on the beach, oohing and ahhing as the sun broke the horizon, powdered donuts in hand—compliments of the inn. I licked my fingers and handed Meredith a napkin. She wiped her mouth, then stood.
“Let’s look for shells!”
Shell hunting was sacred in our vacation tradition. And though St. Simon’s wasn’t known for shelling, the few we found each year felt even more special.
But that morning, the waves rolled in and back out again, leaving only smooth, empty sand behind. Gulls squawked overhead. Sea birds danced at the shoreline. Still, no shells.
We walked forever, then packed it in and returned to the room to wake Dad.
The days fell into a rhythm: sunrise shelling and playing in the ocean, lazy lunches in town, afternoons at the pool, and dinners at local restaurants. Every day, I said, “Maybe tomorrow.” But each morning brought the same result—no shells.
I felt weary by the fourth afternoon as we gathered our things at the pool. The pungent combination of chlorine and sunscreen permeated the air, while excited kids squealed and teens in bikinis lounged in the chairs. I needed a break.
“I don’t know,” I said, toweling off. “Maybe we should sleep in tomorrow.”
“What?” Meredith spun around, water droplets flying from her wet hair. “We’ll miss the shells!”
I looked at her—sun-kissed, freckled, her face lit with conviction.
“We always find shells one day of our vacation,” she insisted. “Tomorrow could be the day.”
I smiled. “OK. We’ll go.”
But the next morning brought nothing but more empty sand and a lack-luster sunrise. I hesitated again.
“Momma,” she said, with the scolding seriousness only a seven-year-old could pull off, “I’m surprised at you.”
She crossed her arms. “You need to have faith. We never leave without shells. We can’t give up.”
I nodded as another hot day stretched out before us
That night, dark clouds gathered as we walked home from dinner. Thunder shook the roof through the night, and rain continued into morning. For once, everyone agreed to sleep in.
At lunchtime, we huddled under umbrellas, darting into our favorite local cafe. Inside, warm and dry, we laughed and lingered over turkey sandwiches on homemade bread, saving just enough room for dessert.
“No pool today,” Dad said. “How about a movie?”
The storm lingered, leading to a cozy night in with pizza and snacks while lightning flashed and thunder rolled outside.
The next morning, the alarm rang early. I groaned, but Meredith sat up in her bed, eyes wide with anticipation.
I peeked through the curtains. The sky was dark, but the rain had stopped.
“Let’s go.”
She shot out of bed, thrilled.
We left in record time, hurrying down the stairs to the beach.
“Momma, look!”
I gasped, taking in the scene. Even a breathtaking, vibrant sunrise couldn’t hold our attention over what we witnessed around us.
Shells littered the sand in troves—tiny spirals, moon snails, coquina shells, whelk, sand dollars we returned to the sea, and treasures of every color and shape. A whole beach transformed.
“See?” she whispered, grinning. “We just needed faith.”
The week flashed back: day after day of quiet hope, early mornings, and gentle disappointment. But Meredith had stayed the course. She exuded a certainty beyond her years: “We’ll find them, Momma. Just wait.”
Then came the storm—a beach day disruption, a setback. But the shore brimmed with seashells in the aftermath—like the ocean had finally opened its hands.
And I thought of Galatians 6:9:
Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
Meredith never gave up, and she encouraged me to remain steadfast, too. And the harvest came—beautiful, abundant, and right on time.
As we made our way back toward the inn, her bucket heavy with shells and her smile even brighter, she looked up at me.
“I can’t wait for Dad to see,” she said, hugging the bucket. “I’ll remember this forever. It’s the best day.”
And on that beach, after days of waiting, I understood. Faith, like the tide, always returns—bringing treasures when the time is right.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.