You need to know how God-infused this journey has been.
I arrived at WAMU station early.
We actually went to the wrong floor but some British chap noticed how lost we looked and offered to escort us back to the right place.
The gal at the desk greeted me warmly.
“I love your orange,” she said. Then she confessed that she was worried that given the subject matter of my book that I would be a dreary and depressing person.
I guess she expected that I would show up looking more like Morticia Addams.
She likes warm weather.
She’s a bike enthusiast.
Her husband has a week off soon.
She was debating where they would go and she hadn’t made any plans yet.
The Outer Banks maybe? But the weather isn’t looking so good.
Coastal Georgia perhaps?
She had no idea who she was talking to. Didn’t know I grew up in Georgia.
St. Simons, perhaps, she said.
Yes, St. Simons, said I.
Yes, agreed my traveling companion. Go to St. Simons.
Great for bike riding.
A little house on the beach, she said.
Of course, said we.
“‘I’ve just had 10 days at a wonderful little town with some girlfriends,” said Alison.
Fairhope, she added.
Yes, do you know it? Alison asked.
Know it? I lived there while writing this story, said I.
No Way, said she.
I met the most wonderful people, said she. An architect.
Walcott, said I.
Yes. Yes, she enthused.
Another man, he owns the record store.
Martin, said I.
Yes, yes, said she.
And his wife?
And so it went for the entire 20 minutes before Sandra came and pulled me away from my new friend April, who will be visiting St. Simons soon.
But before I left, she called her Fairhope friend.
“I’m here at work with an author who has a signing in Fairhope on May 8th. You must go,” said she.
And later, said my editor Sonny, who calls Fairhope home, God.
Yes, said I.
And my publisher, whom I first met there in that enchanted place, “It keeps circling around to Fairhope.”
Prepping for the interview with Katty Kay and Sandra.
Journalists. Mothers. Writers.
If you missed the interview, click here to listen.
Katty Kay did an excellent job. I was proud to work with her.
To all of you who called, sent me a note, emailed, called into the show, or commented afterwards, thank you.
To the grandfather whose granddaughter was murdered, to the woman whose sister was traumatized, the girl who was sexually abused by her mother, to the grandmother whose granddaughter is in the hospital with third-degree burns, to the mother who believed she could mitigate abuse, I want you to know I am praying for you. My heart breaks for you.
We can and must do better than this.