Will You Swim With Me

"I'll let you use these two bran new life preservers if you will swim with me," I told two little boys around ten years of age at a public beach in Portland, Maine. We went there on vacation one year and made our way through Kennebunkport and Portland. We saw the Bush home, the Wedding Cake house, Wadsworth-Longfellow house, stopped at the LL Bean store and bought the best pair of sunglasses I ever owned, swam in a crystal-clear inland lake where we could see all the way to the bottom, and stayed at a country bed and breakfast, but of all my memories of that trip, my favorite memory was swimming in the ocean with those two boys. "Yes, we'll swim with you," they told me to my great relief. You see, I am scared to swim alone in a lake. The ocean holds much more fear for me. On a crowded beach in Maine I found my lifeline. They are remembered for the joy they brought to a fun loving lady whose delight in them brought about more of their humor. The more I laughed, the more they hammed it up. Their watchful mother must have smiled at the scene.

Ray didn't want to go swimming that day. He opted to sit by the wall next to the stairway with his bare head exposed to the hot afternoon sun. Those two boys, with their strong New England brogue, kept me laughing for hours. One went in earlier than the other giving me a chance to swim and float with the new life preserver I had purchased for that very reason. On and on we swam in the ocean as I kept glancing at Ray with his head getting more red from the merciless heat of the sun. I wondered why he didn't cover his head; and if I should get out because it was obvious he wasn't having fun. I chose to stay and have the time of my life. Those little boys were a Godsend.

The last little boy tired out before I did and decided to go in. Since I was left all alone, I decided to go in, too. There wasn't a hint of a sunburn on me when I finally came out of the water. Ray climbed the stairs without mention of his painful glow. As we were climbing the walkway toward our parked car, I noticed the little boy's mother drying him off. She said to him, "Thank the lady for swimming with you all this time." The last I ever heard from that little boy was, "Thank you for swimming with me." "You're welcome and thank you," was my reply. Thank you, Lord, for the everyday blessings you send into each one of our lives. May we look for them, see them, and be ever thankful for them.