Truro. Malibu East, Malibu West. Revere (Ri-vee-ah). Easta Bost. Windansea. La Jolla Shores. Pacific Beach. My list's not endless, but my memories approach infinity. Lately a summer week at Truro each of three years in a row has been haunting me. A big group in a big house on the water with friends of my classmate's family. Sand dunes, lighthouses, and trips to nearby Provincetown were stuff of dreams.
I've been haunted.
Every year I drove back to the city late Sunday afternoon. Monday was grocery shopping, laundromat, and catch-up with urban buzz. Tuesday initiated a few days of final planning for our neighborhood summer program. I knew I'd "hit my stride," as they say in certain quarters. This is what I'd be doing most of the rest of my life. I felt God's call and claim on my life. It felt right and righteous.
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