Block Island Journal

A perfect June afternoon is slipping away. The ocean is even bluer than the cloudless sky, and from the deck of my little cottage set perilously on the high Mohegan Bluffs, I must have one of the best views on Block Island.

This has always been a special place for me. It was home to William Stringfellow during the last part of his life. I have been coming here for almost 20 years--for retreat, rest, and the closest thing to vacations I took during the early years of Sojourners. The cottage Bill had built for Daniel Berrigan after he got out of prison is the remaining foothold on the island of the old circle of radical Christians who found refreshment, discernment, and companionship in the community created around Bill Stringfellow's home.

Today, the novel I have been reading is almost finished. Soon the moon will rise right in front of me, over the Atlantic, which is smooth and peaceful. I glance back toward the west and am startled by the glorious sight. The setting sun is already a blazing red ball....The lighthouse!

I jump in the truck and head down Spring Road, past the quaint hotels, restaurants, shops, and art galleries that face the waterfront. The ferry that brought me here last night rests at the dock, a good day's work finished. Now, out to Corn Neck Road and the north end of the island. Where the road ends, a few other people have gathered to witness the sunset. It is going to be spectacular.

Wanting to get as close to the sun as I can, I take to the beach and head toward the North Light, now silhouetted against the multicolored horizon. I have made this walk many times before; the reward is always worth the long hike.

Past the old stone lighthouse (which still warns sailors lest they venture too close to the rocky shores), is a long sand spit that ends where the tides from the east and west sides of the island crash together and spray the sky.

I stand there and watch in awe. As the flaming sphere sinks slowly into the ocean waves, other waves of wonder and gratitude pour over me. I wander up the beach on the west side of the island, not ready to leave. Most people depart when the sun goes down and never see how much more radiant and colorful the sky becomes after the ocean swallows the day.

Climbing sand dunes, I cut across toward the lighthouse again, seeking a high place for a better look. There must be thousands of seagulls here tonight, soaring overhead, claiming the tops of dunes, gathered in huge crowds on the beach, and perched precariously on the tip of the rotating beacon of light. It's just past nesting season, and the gulls make enough noise to remind me and anyone else that this place belongs to them.

When I reach the top of a dune, I turn back toward the western sky. The climb has my blood pumping, but it is the brilliant shafts of red, orange, gold, and purple stretching across the entire horizon that take my breath away. Almost unintentionally I whisper, "Thank you."

Eventually I tear myself away and trudge through the deep sand back to the truck at the now-abandoned parking area. Taking the long way home, around the island, I turn into Sam Peckham's Tavern to see if they are still serving dinner. A lobster special for $10.95 is too much to resist. Over a leisurely meal and beer, I finish my novel. Finally, I head back to my hideaway on the cliffs.

On a whim, I stop into McGovern's Yellow Kittens, one of the few island night spots. Music is playing and small groups of people mill around pool tables. Across the room, I notice two guys playing ping-pong and wander over to watch for a moment. "You want the winner?" one of them asks. A little startled, I reply, "Sure."

My competitive spirit rising, I watch them intently. They are young, aggressive, and undisciplined players. I can beat these guys, I think to myself. Their game is close, one just besting the other. I take on the winner and he quickly tries to impress me with big slams. I return everything he has; he can't handle my serve. Increasingly frustrated, he defeats himself. His partner perks up, anxious for a turn at me. He fares no better.

I am getting into a groove now as the boys begin to gather around the table. One after another, they come and take their best shots. More than a dozen of the locals and young summer workers try, some three or four times, to beat the guy in the black denim shirt who just walked in off the street. A few come close, but all eventually go down to defeat.

For two-and-a-half hours, I own the table. It is like Jackie Gleason and Paul Newman in the Hustler, Tom Cruise in The Color of Money. I am getting everything. From one side of the table to the other, forehands and backhands, spin shots and aces that can't be returned--it is all working. And my serve is deadly. As sweat runs down my forehead, I think this was how Magic must have felt in the Orlando All-Star game.

All of a sudden, there are no personal struggles, financial crises, community problems, or political despair. There is only the game. And I am not all of the things I often can't hold together. I am only the player. God is the magnificent artist who painted the horizon and spoke in the sound of the sea. The lobster was exquisite. And I feel very happy.

It's summertime. Go someplace you love. Let the beauty embrace you. Read some fiction. And lose yourself in doing things with no more cosmic importance than a game of ping-pong. If you're just too busy, it's even more important to go. Enjoy.

Jim Wallis is editor-in-chief of Sojourners.