James Derkits

I remember the first time I camped out on the beach. It was with a few college friends, and we set up right next to the dunes down on the west end of Galveston somewhere. I grew up going to the beach with my family for vacation, but we always stayed in our beach house. That meant we could always shower off, and have a good clean dinner, and sleep in relatively un-sandy beds. Camping on the beach is a different story. We had a good day playing in the surf and we even kept the sand out of most of our food for dinner, but when it was bed-time, it was impossible to keep sand out of the tents. It seemed like as we tried to brush the sand off our feet, or shake out a sleeping bag, more sand would sneak in on the wind. In the end, I had to make a decision to just be sandy and be okay with that. Then the sand didn't really bother me as much as it did when I was trying to stay un-sandy. Recently, after church, I went down to the beach to play with Eli. My sister and a niece and nep

The two questions I find myself asking and being asked again and again are, "How long have you lived down here?" and "What brought you to Port A?" I'm trying my best to remember everyone's name as I meet them, though I've also had to ask people a few times until I remember. But behind everyone's name is a story of how they came to live on this island, and behind how long they have been here is the story of why they stayed. I'm not hearing the stories of people who have left, of course. Maybe I'll hear those as I travel and introduce myself as "from Port Aransas." People of all sorts of backgrounds have moved here, or if they grew up on the island, they chose to stay here because -of the slower pace of life -it is beautiful -they like to recreate in a certain way (fish, sail, surf, etc.) And so far, my answers have been mirrors of theirs. Of course the amazing community I found already at Trinity by the Sea, and sensing a call

Laura, Eli, the dogs and I were neatly packed into Laura's Insight (a car) heading west when we passed the "Leaving Houston City Limit" sign. It was a significant leaving in that we closed on our house, so this time we were really leaving.  I knew it was coming, so I had my camera ready. Laura was driving. I knew the sign was coming, and I knew the moment was coming, yet the picture is still blurry. For a while I tried to figure out the starting point of the path that led to leaving Houston. I started with more recent events, but then I would remember things further back: Nine years ago, before I went to seminary, I stayed in a beach house in Port Aransas only a few blocks away from the vicarage . Was that the beginning of a journey that led us here? Or, perhaps the trips to Crystal Beach with my parents when I was a boy. Maybe that planted a seed in my heart that has come to fruition. I've stopped trying to look for the beginning of the path, when I look back, ther