An enthusiastic Sunday walk, one with the intention of an adventure had us clambering over rocks to travel from one bay to the next. Oscar found himself a sturdy stick and we were away, exploring and collecting shells and seaglass on our way.
Then the unthinkable happened. My husband lost his footing and fell 4 metres onto the rocks below. He was badly hurt and due to the location of the fall it was a helicopter rescue to the hospital. Our “adventure” had gone next level.
In the aftermath of the fall, the family had been dispersed. The eldest got the younger two to my mother’s car and then stayed with me on the rocks. My thirteen year old found people to ring for an ambulance and then ran, according to him, the fastest in his life to the safety of my parents’ house.
Fortunately Dean was able to come home from hospital that same day, wrist broken and barely able to walk, but the family was back together. As we talked through the events of the day my thirteen year old shared how his carefully collected seaglass had fallen from his pocket in his dash to my parents house.
I couldn’t fix my husband, change the events of the day to avoid the fall, but maybe I could restore some seaglass to my son. So I returned to the beach and collected more seaglass.
Later that day I was able to give my son a glass jar of seaglass. It now sits pride of place on his desk. Restored, treasured.
In all the tasks I had to do after the accident, scrounging for seaglass wouldn’t seem the most important. But somehow it was.
Perhaps it represented hope, or healing or restoration. I don’t know. But in some way that jar of seaglass is precious to me too.