I’ll be trading mountains for beach in about nine days and six hours. Not that I’m counting or anything. But I am.

Though a country boy at heart, going for very long without seeing the ocean puts me in a mental and emotional funk. I need the salty air and the warm breezes. I need the sun and the sand and the don’t-worry-it-can-wait attitude. Word has it that I come from a long line of sailors, and I guess it’s still in my blood. I would have made a really good pirate.

Planning for the beach is a delicate process that involves precision planning. What books should I take? And how many notebooks? Should I pack a nice pair of khakis, or am I just going to be a shorts/flip-flops bum all week? And does the hotel have wireless? Spending a week without an internet connection is something I’m not willing to do anymore.

All that packing and gathering of essentials, coupled with a column to write and a book proposal to finish, will make a busy week even busier. I flirted with the idea of taking a week off from blogging, kind of a pre-vactation vacation, but I realized that would drive me nuts.

The answer to my problem came from April, who blogs over at Straight From The Heart. She’s asked her readers for some things they’d like to know about her and taken a few posts to answer their questions.

Perfect.

Because I figure that by now most of you know plenty about my family, my friends, and the people who share my small corner of the world. But you don’t know much about me. Part of the reason why so many editors and agents tell fledgling writers to do the whole Facebook and Twitter thing is so potential readers can see the real person behind all of the writing. I’ve taken their advice and try to do update as much as I can, but there’s only so much of a glimpse someone can take into your life in 140 characters or less.

So here’s the deal. Leave me a comment or shoot me an email, and ask some questions (just mind the manners your momma taught you, please). I’ll be the proverbial open book, and I’ll start answering them here later this weekend. You’ll get to know me a little better, and I’ll be able to take a break from what I usually write.

It’s win-win. That always works for me.

Still, I was curious. Did these people know they had the fortune and blessing to have the nation’s best job? That all of their hard work had paid off to get them the lifestyle of a lifetime? I wasn’t sure. And to me, it felt like something they should know if they didn’t. So I took a few days and asked around.

Two math, one music, three English, a history, and four philosophy professors later, and I was convinced of two things. One was that they knew exactly how blessed they were to have their particular occupation. The other was that it didn’t matter.

Because while all eleven enjoyed their work and got plenty out of it, in their heart of hearts they would still rather be doing something else.

One math professor expressed a lifelong desire for crab fishing, and the other just wanted to run off to Bora Bora. The history professor admitted that she’d always wanted to open a florist shop. Two of the philosophy professors wanted to be farmers, and the other two missionaries. All three English professors wanted to be famous authors rather than ignored ones. And the music professor? “I’ve always wanted to be a bounty hunter,” all one hundred and twenty pounds of him said. (And it’s okay to laugh at that. Because I did).

Those little confessions didn’t surprise me.

Despite what we say about being happy with where and who we are, deep down we’re never where we should be. No matter how hard we chase after our bliss, it always remains just a few steps ahead. Close enough to see, almost close enough to touch, but not quite. There to both inspire us to keep going and taunt us because we haven’t gone far enough.

Psychologists say this difficulty in finding what makes us happy is inborn. As much a part of us as the desire to love and be loved. I want to disagree with that and say that faith can bring us both happiness and a sense of place in this world, but the truth? I have faith, have a sense of happiness and place, but there are still many times when I look at my happy life and think there’s more out there. More happiness. More better.

Whether this makes me any less of a Christian is something I haven’t figured out yet.

There’s a lot to be said for being content with what you have, a sentiment echoed by people from the Apostle Paul (“I’ve learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am”) to Thoreau (“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone”) to a country song I heard on my way into work this morning (“…I look around at what everyone has, and I forget about all I’ve got…”).

Wise words, all. And true. Yet here I sit, still wanting more anyway. More dreams, more happiness, more peace.

I suppose we’re all stricken with wanderlust. Deep down we’re all explorers who cannot rest until we reach the next horizon, if only to see what’s there and what’s beyond. The ocean we’re all adrift upon is vast, it’s waters deep, and it’s wonders breathtaking. And though we sail onward, ever searching, our spirits whisper this truth:

We are meant to sail upon the waters of another ocean, where the seas are calm and the winds are fair. And that our happiness now is but a shadow of the happiness that awaits.

I’ve always loved Memorial Day, and for a lot of reasons.

It’s a day off for me. Firing up the grill and eating too much. Spending time with family and friends. Relaxing. Officially saying goodbye to the fickleness of spring and hello to summer’s reliable warmth.

But Memorial Day is also more. Much more. I’ve always realized that. But this past Saturday, I knew it.

I’m posting at Katdish’s blog today. I invite you there so you can meet my friend Kirk, who has changed quite a bit over the past four years. Time can do that. So can war.

Have a blessed day, everyone. And don’t forget to pause in this peaceful day to remember those
who secured that peace for us.