As the Bridge Turns
Wendy Pollitzer Bids Farewell to Beaufort and Gives Thanks to August Green
story by WENDY POLLITZER photos by PAUL NURNBERG
As many of you already know, I am moving to Wilmington, NC, to start the second half of life with my forever partner. My entire existence has called South Carolina home for forty-eight years, with the first two quarters rooted in the Lowcountry. While it’s bittersweet to leave, my heart and faith say it’s time … it’s your time.
Writing about the Lowcountry has been my passion for eighteen years. I’ve written hundreds of articles, curated books, and told the stories of businesses, organizations, and characters who dwell on the coast between Beaufort and Charleston.
As I started writing this piece, anxiety hindered my inspiration. There was no way I could write about a group of people without feeling guilty that I may have left another group out. Or write about a time of my life that may seem like it was trumping another. So, I’ve decided to tell you just one of my many stories, without names. It may start off sad, but I PROMISE it ends very, very well.
I woke up on a Wednesday morning with an emptiness that I’d never felt in my life. It was May 23, 2012. I’d recently experienced paranoia that stemmed from the actions and behavior of a person who was given an opportunity to surveil others, and he did so irresponsibly and aggressively toward me. This paranoia, combined with a traumatic life change I’d yet to acknowledge and accept, led me down a wicked downward spiral of solitude and doubt. I was making $400 a week before taxes and raising two daughters. I was financially, emotionally, and spiritually drowning in a rip current of hell.
I didn’t pick up my girls from school that day. I hid in a hotel room overnight and cried. No one could find me. The entire town was worried about my safety.
Thankfully, there was a tribe to help. I admitted myself into the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. Family and friends came to visit, but my mind was focused on my daughters. How could I have been so weak to let them down? What was missing in my life to be so selfish? I stared at their photos for hours between group therapy sessions … lost, bewildered, remorseful, and scared.
On Thursday, I met Adam (name changed for privacy), a drill instructor at Parris Island and father of three. He’d survived multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, and led thousands of recruits to graduate into the United States Marine Corps.
He was hurting, just like me. He asked me if I was a believer, and I said, “Well, yes.” He asked if I would like to pray with him, and I said, “I would.” We prayed together, and he shared written scriptures from multiple chapters in the Bible that gave me inspiration and fuel for the remainder of the day. I was learning that recovery was a marathon, not a race. Each day mattered.
Two friends came for an unexpected visit the following day, a husband and wife. They shared their testimony of a family member who battled depression. They assured me with empathy and grace that I was not alone in my struggle. And before they left, we prayed.
Adam and I met again after our session, and we discussed faith at length. I explained that I’d always been a Christian, but I’d never really owned or understood my personal faith. He smiled a big grin and said, “It’s the greatest reward of humanity. It’s relief. It’s hope. It’s a life without worry.”
I thought about his words that evening and wept. I was frustrated that I didn’t feel a sincere faith. I prayed that Friday night before bed, but my words felt hollow. I fell asleep with my daughters’ photos on my chest, close to my heart.
Another friend came to visit that Saturday and offered her prayers and support. She was a friend from college who’d also moved to Beaufort to raise her family. I explained to her my recent despair the best I could. As she departed through the locked and guarded double doors, she looked back and said, “Throughout that conversation, I didn’t hear you mention God one time. Do you have a relationship with God? He’s there for you, you know. You just have to ask Him into your heart.”
She said it with such kindness and sincerity. She was right. I was missing God in my life.
I went back to my room, and shortly after that, a young woman of Puerto Rican descent entered with a nurse. She was my new roommate. She was holding a Bible.
After lunch, I learned Alicia (name changed for privacy) was a mother of three and a woman of strong Catholic faith. Her husband had been deployed three times recently as she raised her three children alone in an area and culture unfamiliar to her.
We were different, but the same.
I explained to her what had just happened … that my friend questioned my faith in God. Her face lit up as I cried. She said, “It’s not that hard. You just have to ask Him into your heart. It was the best day of my life when I did.”
It seemed so simple. And I was curious.
I told Alicia that I was going outside to get some air. She asked me if I wanted to take her Bible. I said, “Yes.”
I wandered out to the barbed enclosed balcony on the third floor of the hospital, overlooking the river.
It was Memorial Day weekend. The Gullah Festival was being held to my left in Henry C. Chambers Memorial Park. A Marine Corps wedding was being performed to my right in Kate Gleason Park. And right in front of me was an exposed sandbar, and roughly seventy-five boats full of Beaufortonians seeking fun and sun on the three-day holiday weekend.
It was surreal. So much of the makeup of Beaufort was right in front of me, yet I’d never felt so alone in all my life. Tears overwhelmed my face and I dropped to my knees with Alicia’s Bible against my chest.
“God, I’ve never done this before. I’m scared. I need you by my side. Will you please come into my heart?”
It was straightforward. It was raw. And I said it out loud with confidence and honesty.
Just then, a Kingfisher appeared on the other side of the barbed wire … only inches from my face. In the body of one of the smallest vertebrates of nature, it was God.
All I heard amidst the chaos of music surrounding me was His voice, “You are not alone, and you never will be again.”
Since that day, I have walked my path with God forever by my side. And I like to think that Beaufort had everything to do with that revelation.
As I got back up on my feet, neighbors from so many chapters in my life came to my side. They encouraged me to hold my head high and walk forth with purpose. And I did.
I authored two more books in my portfolio, bought a house, built an Airbnb, and raised two emotionally intelligent daughters as a single mom and woman of faith.
I want to be clear, though. I am not a one-size-fits-all kind of Christian. I have a personal relationship with God, who walks with me daily and allows me to see the beauty of this great thing we call Life.
You allowed me to see this beauty through your lens, Beaufort. You gave me the canvas to appreciate nature, your landscape, and all your animals. You gave me the opportunity and purpose in writing. You gave me a village to raise my daughters safely and a spartina-filled coastline to fill them with curiosity and wonder. You reminded me daily of the sacrifices of the United States Marine Corps and our Armed Forces. You gave me a better understanding of racial unity by way of historic and cultural preservation. You gave me a fair playing field of the socio-economic spectrum in a homestead that prioritizes respect over class.
Most of all, you gave me your people. Too many to name; you gave me a tribe of friends and supporters and an institution of community. You gave me August Green, the metaphor of my life.
August Green is the hue of the spartina grass in August, my favorite color … that chartreuse green that brightens the marsh on the horizon of the skyline as far as the eye can see.
August Green is new growth that’s soon to shed into the rivers and creeks to become habitat and food for fish and other species. It later washes up on the beach as a natural foundation for future sand dunes that protect the maritime forest of our barrier islands; and, of course, those small islands protect the bigger sea islands and us from storms. Its cyclical nature is a calming reminder of our evolutions, where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re going.
Beaufort, you will forever be the front porch of my August Green. As I welcome this new season, I thank you for rooting me and my daughters in a community of dignity and grace, and giving me a canopy of support to understand my greater purpose. Thank you for twenty-four years of the best August Green memories this pluff mud-loving girl could ever ask for. It’s time … it’s my time.
*This article is dedicated to Adam, the drill instructor I met in the hospital. In 2016, I checked on him via social media on the anniversary of our time together, when he introduced me to the concept of faith. I was two months too late. Adam lost his battle with depression, and I will forever be grateful for his time on this Earth as my angel. Rest in Glorious Peace, Adam.
