Marshall Ramsey

Hundreds of taillights clogged the interstate for as far as he could see. Jim Kinney fought the urge to honk his horn – like that would have done any good.  Instead, he was like a roast in a Crockpot — he slowly stewed in his car.  Oh, he knew he’d be late again.  And this time, it wasn’t his fault.

Another fool behind him honked his car’s horn.  Everyone around him swung their heads in anger.  The man meekly shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Sorry.”

How could it get any worse?

The man knew he shouldn’t have prayed for patience because God was giving him an opportunity to learn some.  He heard his watch ticking.  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.  A quick flick of the switch on the car radio turned on the morning drive-time radio host.  “There’s a wreck at exit 102.  May be a fatality but the interstate is shut down and traffic is backed up for miles.”  Something inside of Jim snapped.

“#$%#$%#$%#$%#$%#$%#$%#@#$@#$@%^#%^!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A lone man screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs while trapped in his stuck car. No one heard him. No one cared.

How could it get any worse?

After wiping the spit off his steering wheel from his screaming fit, he looked over at the blond, forty-something lady chewing on her fingernails.  A twenty-something texted to his right (probably is what caused the wreck in the first place.).  Two men got out of their cars and tried to look ahead.  He lifted his watch to his face again.

He was so fired.  He just knew it.  His company was looking for reasons to get rid of employees.  His life was over.

How could it get any worse?

Four ambulances drove down the emergency lane. It must be bad.

The coffee he drank started to make itself known.  How he’d kill for a bathroom right now.  He squeezed his legs together and yet again looked at his watch.

How could it get any worse?

Traffic started moving again. Slowly at first. Obviously people up ahead where trying to merge down into one lane.  He patiently eased his car forward, trying not to get into wreck himself.

As he got in sight of the wreck itself, his phone went off. It was his wife, hysterical, saying something he could not understand.

“Calm down, honey. I can’t understand you.”

“Michael! Wreck! Hurt!” she gasped as she cried.

And right as Jim Kinney passed the wreck (there were four cars in all), he saw a familiar car crumpled. He then noticed one of the injured people being loaded into the ambulance.  His stomach sank to his toes: It was his son Michael.

It had gotten worse.

He quickly pulled over to the side of the interstate and ran to the ambulance. His son was bloodied, but awake.  “Dad?”

“I’m here, Michael. I’m here.”

He called a friend to get his car, handed its keys to the officer.  He then said to the paramedic, “I’m his father!”  and climbed into the ambulance.  “I’m here for you son. It’s going to be OK.”

At that moment, he didn’t care about being late to work. He didn’t care about being stuck in traffic. He forgot that he had to pee. He was just glad he could be there with his son, holding his hand in at this time of need.

And then he looked at his boy’s battered face and thought, “Thank goodness I was late.”

It was a cool, late winter’s day. The man paused as he caught his breath. Propping against his shovel, he looked around at what he was building. The muddy water surrounding his waders revealed his progress.

Brick by brick he constructed it. Each block represented an aspect of his life: Friends. Family. Health. Career. He stacked them up on each other one by one.  He paused again. A storm would come — He knew that.  This was his seawall. This was what would protect all that was dear to him.  He knew that, too.

Another concrete block and then cement.  But instead of just blocks, he used steel, rebar as they called it. He ran it in between the holes in the block.  The steel and the concrete he poured around it was his faith. He stopped for a moment, rested and smiled. When he was a younger man, he had built a seawall without the rebar. Youth’s folly, he had called it.  It had crumbled the first time it had been tested.

He listened as the sound of the water lapped gently against the shoreline.  A hawk glided gently overhead. It was so peaceful. So calm. But he knew what was coming.  He knew a storm was on the way.

Another row of blocks. More concrete. More steel.

Individually all these parts of his life would have failed when assaulted. But together, he had a strong line of protection.  His seawall would take some serious punishment.  He knew it was strong.

He put the shovel down on the shore and admired his work. This wasn’t an overnight job. Building something like this took time.  A lifetime, he thought. And it took effort. He thought of the Three Little Pigs. No house of straw for him. The thought of a straw seawall made him laugh. “Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.”  The wolf was coming. He’d be ready for him.

He put the cold glass of unsweet tea to his lips and felt the refreshing drink cool his dry throat like cold water on a hot beach.  Now he could build his life with confidence.  And build it, he did.

A few years later, that storm did come. The once peaceful body of water rose and battered the seawall. Wave after wave after wave blasted the blocks. The pounding took its toll on each one of them. His family felt the pain. His health and career did, too.  The howling wind and the force of the water chipped away at them all.  Everything he stood for was at risk.  The storm was unrelenting. A weaker wall would have collapsed.

But his held strong. The seawall took the punishment the storm threw at it. And by dawn’s early light, it was still there. The rebar and the concrete held the wall intact.  His faith kept everything together.  The storm relented, the sky began to clear and the water receded.

He inspected the damage. A few blocks were chipped and had to be replaced. He got new career. He repaired his family.  He strengthened his health.  He thanked his friends.

Because he knew another storm would come.  And when it did, his seawall would be ready.