The morning after Bob Deaton’s funeral I awoke to find a red-headed woodpecker of some dark denomination drilling a hole in the top of my dock piling. Pecking away in the bright sunlight. Knocking on wood. Reminding me that I should be too.

The bird departed when I lifted the top hatch board of my sailboat and stepped into the cockpit, disturbing the glaze of frost that coated the cushions. I looped a leg over the lifeline, found good footing on the narrow pad along the toe rail, and stepped onto the fnger pier. My yard-sale bike, a boy’s model at least two generations too small for my short legs, was propped against the white dock box. The black seat was gray under the dusting of frozen dew. The air was cold. Mighty cold. Too cold for me to be riding a bike on a narrow dock in February.

I mounted the bike, pointed the front tire south, and started towards the bathhouse, hoping this would be one of those good mornings when the hot water heater worked. The apparent wind from my forward progress bit into my thin skin, but I didn’t risk adjusting my grip for fear of veering of the dock and into the creek. I’d tested the temperature of the water in February, once, clothed only in jeans and sneakers. It wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat.

So I rode slowly, shifting the small pouch of shower garb over the front spokes, centering the weight more evenly, making careful corrections to keep me in the center of the dock. The sun was rising over the black pine tops. Dock lines glistened like tinsel as sunlight broke through. Hot breath formed dense clouds as I worked the low gear. Beneath my pedals I could see fresh tire tracks carving a slender trail in the thick icing on the planks.

There was a lot of beauty in the early hours of that cold February morning, but it came with some pain. Thin air burned my lungs. Knuckles hurt from the chilled wind. Eyes watered from the intense cold. Pleasure and pain were both a part of the morning. You can’t have the splendor of a winter sunrise frozen in time without the pain of the cold. The sting of death mutes the joy of life, and it’s a very gray world indeed, without both.

The hot water worked, but the pressure was low. I hurried along, changed into my author’s outfit and headed for New Bern to participate in the first annual Book Lovers Affair. Skip Crayton was there promoting his book, Remember When. My cousin Carolyn Booth was giving away home-baked cookies and selling copies of Aunt Mag’s Recipe Book. I set my box down on the short end of a long table, saving most of the counter space for Nicholas Sparks. I knew Sparks would have more books to sell, knew he probably hadn’t reserved space at the event, and knew too he probably wasn’t coming. If Sparks did show up then maybe he’d appreciate my generosity and offer a word of advice for how to become a best-selling author. Most likely he’d say, “Write.” All successful writers say the same thing: “Just write.” For a crowd that claims to be creative, writers can be a dull lot sometimes.

Sparks didn’t arrive, but Ben Casey did, so I shared my space with Ben. He sold a few books, smiled for the women who took his picture, and then left early to eat lunch with his wife. Ben was good company. His fellowship made the slow day move faster.

But there remained a chill in the air. A tremor of remorse rattled the crowd whenever the conversation turned to Oriental and boating. The news was still too fresh, the after shocks too close to home. Someone would stop to look at the cover of my book, tell their own story of how they’d run aground, and then end with, “It’s just awful about Bob’s death, isn’t it?”

It was. And it is. And it will be for sometime. Fifty-two was a good-sized number, but it’s not big enough. Not by a long shot.

The great deception of life is to believe that we’ll live for a very long time, that we’ll always have another chance to make a difference. But we won’t. Often we only get one chance to do the right thing, at the right time, for the wrong kind of person — for the person who is interrupting our plans with their own petty problems. Then we’re off again on our bike or car or boat Filling another busy moment with ourselves. Making a living, making a life, making excuses for why we can’t stop to help or hear or offer a measure of hope to someone in need.

I missed Bob’s funeral. I didn’t think I knew him well enough to attend. But I should have gone. I should have gone out of respect for his life, out of respect for what he meant to this community. I should have gone to testify that his life made a diference, that his work had meaning, was necessary and good. It would have only taken a little time out of my day. I had the time. I should have spent some.

Hard Aground hint: Time is the only contraband we bring into this world, and what we don’t spend on others we should exchange for memories.

Passage markers: Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. Jesus said to them, “Take of the grave clothes and let him go.” — John 11:43–44.
For further guidance read Ecclesiastes 3:1–8.

Prayer focus: Those tempted to spend more time on things than people.

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