There are some welcomes you never have to question.
When I returned to California this past weekend, Willow greeted me as though she had been waiting for me to come back. She is a young English Lab—mostly white, with touches of yellow—and built with the broad shoulders and stocky frame typical of the breed.
The last time I visited, Willow was still fairly young. We spent quite a bit of time swimming together, and apparently she remembered every bit of it.
If I was in the pool, Willow wanted to be in the pool. If I moved toward the water, she watched closely. By the end of the weekend, merely acting as though I might dive underwater was enough to send her jumping in after me.
Laura and John say Willow almost never barks. Yet while we were together on the ledge at the deep end, she suddenly started barking at me.
It seemed as if she were saying, “Well, what are we doing next? Are we going to swim or not?”
“Inside voice, Willow,” I told her.
I said it jokingly, but she was clearly trying to communicate something. She wanted the game to continue.
We eventually developed our own routine. I would lead her toward the deep end, where there is now a ledge she can stand on. She was too small to use it comfortably last year, but now she can stand there with her head well above the water.
Once she reached the ledge, I would dive beneath the surface, push away from the wall, and swim back toward the shallow end. Willow would immediately follow.
When I disappeared underwater, I was told that she would look around frantically, wondering where I had gone. Then I would surface, and there she was, swimming after me.
We made lap after lap—probably fifteen or twenty by the end of the evening.
Willow has long claws, and when she gets excited, she sometimes tries to swim over the top of me rather than beside me. Diving deep and getting ahead gave her a clear destination while keeping both of us safer. For a while, she did a good job of swimming alongside me. As she became tired, however, she started swimming toward me again, trusting that I would help steady and comfort her.
She was exhausted and breathing hard, but every time she thought I was going back into the water, she was ready to jump in again.
Winnie wanted her share of attention too.
Whenever possible, both dogs climbed onto my lap. They can be difficult, mischievous, and occasionally frustrating. Winnie even found my glasses on a very high table and carried them away, apparently hoping to begin a game of keep-away.
I was not amused at the time.
Still, there is something special about the affection of a dog. They do not offer half of themselves. When they trust you, they give you everything they have.
Oddly, when I am away, I sometimes struggle to recall Willow and Winnie’s names. Perhaps it is simply because I do not say their names regularly when I am thousands of miles away. But I have not forgotten them. The moment I return, the names, personalities, and relationships all come rushing back.
And more importantly, they remember me.
The dogs were not the only part of California that called something out of me.
During the trip, I walked many miles along trails and spent time beside the Pacific. I did not have swimming trunks with me, and I was carrying my phone and camera, so I could not get into the water. Instead, I walked through the sand and stood at the ocean’s edge, watching the waves rise and crash.
I would rather have been swimming, boogie boarding, or perhaps even trying to learn how to surf. But simply standing there was enough to remind me of something:
This is where I want to be.
It may not always be California. The cost of living there is more than I would want to carry, and the future could take me to another country or another coastline entirely. But wherever that next season leads, I hope the ocean is part of it.
I imagine a quieter life near the water—walking along the shore, throwing out a fishing line occasionally, taking a boat out from time to time, and swimming whenever the conditions allow.
Some places entertain us. Others awaken something that has been waiting quietly inside us.
This weekend gave me both kinds of reminders: Willow and Winnie reminded me how it feels to be remembered and welcomed without reservation. The ocean reminded me of the life toward which I am moving.
Perhaps God gives us these moments so that we do not lose sight of what matters. A dog waiting for us to resurface. Waves folding themselves endlessly against the shore. A feeling of belonging that arrives before we can fully explain it.
Sometimes, the ones who remember us also help us remember ourselves.
Seasons and Horizons 
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