We had several days of dense, set in fog. We walked to the marina near our house to see how the fog looked over the river.
The St. Johns River meanders through Jacksonville dividing the city center in two. There are seven bridges in Jacksonville. Five connect the old to the not as old.
There is a public boat launch two blocks from us. Two old tugs are on one side spewing industrial sounds and smells. A private marina with sailboats is on the other side giving a stark contrast to this working river.
We’ve lived here almost 2 years and when we walk to the marina we have views of the bridge that carries our granddaughter’s school bus over the river 5 days a week. That bridge also connects us to some of our favorite restaurants and move theater.
When we walked to the river that foggy morning the bridge that spans nearly half a mile was invisible. I thought about the view she must have had from inside the school bus and could understand the concern she had expressed to us. They wouldn’t be able to see the water below or the land on the other side. Only the vehicles nearest would be visible. It would be scary.
We were surprised at what we couldn’t see and at the beautiful reflections in the water we could see. Tug boats aren’t visually appealing but their reflection held a certain interest.
The reflection of the dock that extends past the tugs was especially beautiful as the fog gave it a deep sense of quiet.
We were ready to leave when Henry said there’s a dolphin!
I had already put the lens cap on my camera but I pulled it off and switched the camera back on while my eyes scanned the water. A minute or so and there was the graceful turn of the dolphin. We only caught a glimpse. We’ve seen dolphins in the ocean when we lived in South Florida and in the gulf but you rarely see more than glimpses. It keeps us watching and wanting more.
It made me think of the glimpses of hope we see. It’s often only a quick look but it’s enough to keep the flames of hope alive.
When I see the glimmer of hope in the eyes of family, the ones hoping their son/brother/spouse will finally find recovery, it fuels my hope to share with them.
The prayers said for scary diagnoses, for unexpected losses, and fears of uncertainty are all a quick glimpse of hope. But it’s enough.
It’s enough for me to keep hoping, praying, loving. Like the brief sightings of dolphins, it’s not enough, I want more.
So is the flash of hope. I want more. And to want more is living in hope.