The prompt was simply “write about a chair.”

Written 11.07.17

It’s a simple rocking chair.  The weathered, wooden slats softened with age. It is painted a slate-gray-blue color, the signature color of Fort Caswell. This chair is not unique. It is one of the many that line the wrap-around porches of these familiar houses at this holy camp by the sea. The paint is worn and peeling a bit in places. Some of the slats are even coming loose from hours of rocking hopeful and weary travelers. Yet, it is still really comfortable, rocking back and forth the most peaceful of any chair I’ve ever known… unless it gets hung on a loose porch board. In the event this happens, as it often does, you just wiggle a little to the left then right and keep rocking.

I have sat in these worn and wonderful chairs each summer as I grew from toddler years through young adulthood and now, into my adult years.  I sit in the familiar chair, slide it up a little further towards the porch railing so that my short legs reach, lean my head back and inhale the sea salt air. These rockers have seen lots of silent moments, writing, reading or praying, while also having been privy to many rich conversations. From who our teenage crushes were to what may be next in our parenting journey to the heartache of loss, these Caswell gray chairs could tell some tales.

I’ve rocked alone on these porches and also been accompanied by friends and family in these ordinary, extraordinary rocking chairs. Notably my sweet Mom.  This might have been her very favorite place on the whole earth: sitting in a weathered gray rocking chair on the porch of a Caswell cottage.  She could sit and rock on a Caswell porch in these simple wooden chairs for hours if uninterrupted. I learned the art of stillness and quiet listening there with her while rocking that holy, rythmic motion. When I think of Mom, I think of rocking chairs as she was such a big fan. When I think of Caswell and these particular weathered, simple and comfortable rocking chairs, I always think of Mom.

We will go to Caswell shortly, a couple weeks from now, to scatter her ashes.  Where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean, this point holds so many precious memories for all of our family.  This is the place where we came for years with our church groups for Music Week, Mom having grown up coming to camp at Caswell. She recalled swimming in the girls’ pool, most certainly separated from the boys’ swimming area. Walking around the old forts, we all shared sacred stories of special times spent there. We loved walking the shoreline looking for shells.  The pier was where so many hours were spent fishing for flounder and flirting with boys. This is the place Mom and Dad, and we still retreat to when a quiet getaway is necessary.  This became the special place where we celebrated Thanksgiving together as a family. As hopeful and weary travelers, for us Caswell holds so many memories filled with abundant joy and gratitude.

You can see Southport to the left and Bald Head Island to the right from the pier.  This point is surprisingly serene and calm. Well, most of the time it is relaxing: except for that one time we rode out a hurricane in Riverside E.  That weather was anything but serene and calm out on that point, and yet there was a palpable sense of peace in our cottage as we together with our church family waited out the strong storm.  Riverside E, and we, came through that rough day, having seen wave after wave crash over the sea wall, each one more threatening than the last. The rocking chairs were turned over that day before the storm came so that they wouldn’t blow away.  Once the storm passes, the chairs are turned right side up, a little more weathered, but the same, simple instruments of refuge they had been before the storm.

The cottage and certainly these simple, glorious rocking chairs have withstood many storms.  And yet, they still provide a refuge, a resting place of solace for the hopeful and weary traveler. Mom was that way. Even while she had weathered a storm or two, she allowed the Lord to use her as an instrument of refuge.

The simple Caswell gray rocking chairs.  My joyful and comforting Mom. I pray I can be the same. Weathered, simple, and comfortable: an instrument of refuge.