Since the year I was born, I’ve been making pilgrimages to Footbridge Beach in Ogunquit, Maine. It’s my sacred place.

The first place I wanted to travel as husband and wife.  The place I stood, when before any clear signs, my body told my soul that I was no longer with child.   The only vacation land I trusted to wrap our preemie in healing warmth and salt. It’s where I retreated when my depression was winning – and where I always find a way to lose myself in the best ways.

Yesterday wasn’t planned, but Briggs and Ken and I had the day off, and when I mentioned going to the beach, everyone agreed.

We lunched where we normally lunch (Billy’s Chowder House), toured a few properties we’ve never really seen before, and then headed to our primary destination.

For the first time in my entire life, the footbridge (the long wooden bridge you must actually must walk across to reach the beach) was closed.

Somehow we missed the massive crane reconstructing complete sections of the bridge until we were stopped in front of the two orange cones, and a “Bridge Closed” sign blocking the entrance of the parking lot.

“We can still get there through the main beach,” I said.  And we did.

Once our feet were finally in sand, and our lungs filled with sea air, the sun came out and we played in tide pools, and with our paddle ball set.  We collected shells and rocks and seaweed, and then started digging.

Looking back on our creation now, the F is the least defined – which feels fitting.  Because when we started, we didn’t really know we were working toward creating F A M I L Y (or how it would all come and stay together) – but that’s what we’ve built…in all it’s imperfect and vulnerable glory.






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