Marion Mom Revisited

I believe in messages from God.

That said, I admit I don't always heed those all-important messages the Maker of the Universe gently whispers in my ear.

The other day, my sweet, eldest daughter of the Delta leaned forward from the backseat of the car and exuberantly yelled in my ear, “Mom!

Look at that beautiful mountain!”

It was an overpass. (Bless her heart.)

I noted this blaring indication that perhaps our family needed to travel every once in a while outside the flatlands.

The opportunity arose quite unexpectedly this month for my husband and I to slip off to the beach while the older kids went to camp. However, we still had the issue of finding childcare for the younger three.

So we prayed that if God wanted us to enjoy a romantic, relaxing beach vacation without the stress and responsibility of the children (yes, please!), that we would be able to find someone to watch the children.

Within the hour, a few crazy

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Dorothy Wilson The Marion Mom MOM

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people had agreed to the daunting task.

Obviously, we interpreted these circumstances as the allencompassing, immutable will of the Almighty.

I set about laundering, folding, and packing for six children in four different locations, as well as for ourselves with the sound of the ocean, the scent of the saltwater, and the silence of solitude on my mind as motivation.

Then circumstances changed.

The day before our scheduled departure, I awoke to an immobilizing pain in my back.

(“Get thee behind me, Satan!

I'm going to the beach!” I'm pretty sure that's how that verse goes.)

I managed to enjoy one adjustment and a host of ice packs before my chiropractor left for the Independence Day holiday.

Next, the air conditioner in our vehicle expired. My husband dropped it off to be repaired while we were gone, and then he secured other means of travel.

Oh, but wait, there's more.

At precisely 4:57 pm, the permanent glue adhering a crown to my molar decisively lost the debilitating battle to gravity.

I consider myself an expert in crowns. I'm ashamed to admit I have more than a few. I know from personal experience that you absolutely cannot leave a tooth crownless for any length of time without expensive repercussions.

At least I didn't swallow it. I also happen to know from personal experience how, ahem, unpleasant subsequent retrieval can be.

Hoping to squeeze in a quick reseating, I called my dentist in hopes he had not yet departed for the holidays, but alas, voicemail informed me otherwise. I envisioned God laughing at me.

The way I figured, I could hang around Marion for an extra four days so Dr. Lance Scarborough could reseat the thing after the holidays, or I could just take it with me and find a dentist in Orange Beach, Ala.

So I packed it up in a sandwich bag and tucked it neatly in my purse, because the immutable will of the Almighty shan't be thwarted by a porcelain woe. As the evening came to an end, I wondered what else could go wrong in the short span of time before we left.

I shouldn't have asked.

My phone rang around 8pm.

“Is this Mrs. Wilson?”

“Yes,” I said, in the slow, deliberate way that leaves the caller understanding that a question lingers in my mind.

“This is Jeremy McNeil with the Marion Police Department. Do you know where [your six-year-old son] is?”

Well, Officer, right up until you asked me that question, I did.

“No,” I responded in the same lilting manner that made the statement seem more like a question.

“He was riding his bike down the middle of Military Rd.

Can you come pick him up?”

We found him chatting gregariously with Officer McNeil in the McDonald's parking lot, wearing pajamas. No shoes.

No helmet.

He tells us he sneaked out of bed to chase his brother (who,

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by the way, was still at home.)

Nothing like mixed messages from the One who created communication. If Moses got a non-burning bush that spoke, surely God can do better than a few ill-timed circumstances to reveal his will to me.

With visions of sandy surf floating in our heads, we chose to ignore the possibility that the Lord may have changed his mind on the whole leave-your-kids-for-aweek bit. I waved goodbye to my little chickadees with much anxiety.

It was not unfounded.

Four days later, the stress of life was finally starting to melt off of my shoulders and run down the wet sand into the foamy tide. Then my phone rang.

The police had made yet another appearance in our lives.

For the same kid. (Bless my heart.)

My apologies to the more than 80 children and their parents at the library's summer event who now have fear and apprehension that bad people will whisk them away if they make an appearance in a crowded, public place.

My apologies to the librarian who had to calm anxious parents and halt her meticulously planned children's program to search for my runaway.

My thanks to the entire Marion Police Department, who by this time are on a firstname basis with my boy, and who will, no doubt, remain a formidable force for good in shaping this young man's character.

Finally, my apologies to my mother, who must have experienced a spectrum of emotions from frustration to fear as she searched for and found him just a block from the library… in his own room.

I'm not kidding. Often, missing children have run away from home. Mine ran to home.

My husband and I stayed at the beach as planned. By this time, if God actually wanted me to cut my trip short and return to the ruckus I call life, he would have had to employ a talking shark or something equally outlandish to prematurely tear me away from my happy place.

In fact, we enjoyed it so much, we decided to retrieve the kids and surprise them with an immediate return to Orange Beach.

We hauled sunscreen, rafts, floaties, flying discs, volleyballs, wave balls, goggles, beach chairs, massive towels, a blanket, a cooler, and a canopy tent through the sand every morning.

We beat a quick retreat when we saw shark fins just 50 yards away.

Someone — we'll generously them an expert — reported they were harmless hammerhead sharks, so back in we went.

We visited Walmart daily for something we forgot. Or for food. (An active crowd of eight eats mounds of food, and the pizza place had a twohour wait. Not even a message from God could get through the phone lines.)

We collapsed every night in bed, sandy, salty, sunburned, and spent.

But at least we made it home with all six kids.

Now who wants to babysit while I recover from this vacation?

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all of the adventures life with their seven children brings. This column originally appeared 10 years ago this month in the Marion Ledger.