A Dream Unfolds

I’ve had moments in my life of such extreme positive emotion that I can’t think or speak or really do much more than stand there with a big stupid grin on my face, eyes wide, heart racing, stomach tumbling.

These moments are relatively rare, and often they catch me off guard. My wedding day was one, for obvious reasons, but then there was the time Kev and I hiked out to a waterfall in upstate New York in the prime of autumn, and I could feel a tremendous awe for the beauty around me welling up from my toes to my throat, prompting me to throw armfuls of red and gold leaves in the air and run under them, my face turned toward the sun. Ah, the very memory gives me goose bumps.

And then there was the time just this past May when I first stepped foot on our land up north. We saw the land in November, when it was covered with brush and snow, and we purchased it in January. All winter we used the satellite image of our 9-acre square only a few miles from Lake Superior to imagine our someday homestead and its gardens, greenhouses, fruit trees, chickens, and bees, our dream of self-sufficient living nearer than it had ever been—Kevin with his hands in the dirt, lovingly growing food for our family, our neighbors, and, someday, or community; me getting to know the chickens, preserving the harvest for the winter, and sneaking off to the Big Lake to bask in its sheer magnificence and work on my novel.

 Waiting for the snow to melt from this year’s ridiculously long winter was a test of patience, and when May finally rolled around, I was about ready to burst. We drove the 3.5 hours north on a sunny Friday, and when we pulled up to our parcel, my shaky legs tripped over themselves getting out of the car. And then I was there, standing, by the grace of God, on our future, feeling for a moment like an intruder until reality sank in: This is ours! 



Our little bit of earth (May 2013)

I wanted to run and sing with my hands in the air, turn cartwheels, and spin around until I was panting and dizzy, and I might have actually done a few of these things, but I’ll never tell! Crying and laughing and feeling strongly compelled to get down on my knees and kiss the ground were it not all wet and muddy, I believed at that moment that anything is possible. I could see everything we’d talked about and planned and prayed for starting to unfold in front of me—hard work, simple pleasures, and good, clean living embodied in one little piece of earth.  Feeling like I was standing under a single beam of sunshine all my own, gratitude, humility, and hope surged through me.

I wish I could have bottled up those feelings for a discouraging day, as attaining a goal is never simple. But I have other methods for dealing with obstacles: I just close my eyes and imagine myself on our land five years from now. I smell the lilacs. I hear the laundry flapping on the clothesline. I feel the spring breeze ruffle my hair. And I know I’m where I belong.



Lake Superior--beach near our land (taken last September)

A View Without Fear

My family likes to joke that whenever I plan a vacation it somehow involves waterfalls and lighthouses, and I’ve got to admit it’s true. Lighthouses—well, anyone who knows me knows that I think lighthouses are super cool, so if there happens to be a lighthouse somewhere near our vacation destination, it’s at least worth a photo op.

Waterfalls, on the other hand, fascinate and frighten me at the same time. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them. In our numerous trips to the North Shore of Minnesota and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we’ve hiked out to a fair share of waterfalls. Most of the waterfalls we’ve viewed are in state parks, where the hiking trails are usually well groomed, and if you stick to the trails and heed the strongly worded DANGER signs, there’s very little possibility that you’ll go tumbling down a deep gorge, break your neck, and drown in front of a bunch of horrified onlookers.

A grim picture, yes? It’s what goes through my mind every time we venture out to one of these powerful displays of nature. I know it’s silly. Kev and I and the kids make it a practice to stick to the trails and use extreme caution around steep cliffs and churning water. But what if a foot slips? What if we lose our balance? What if…

A couple of weeks ago, Kev and I were up visiting our newly acquired land on the Bayfield peninsula and decided to hike out to Houghton Falls. Most of what I’d read about the falls suggested they are relatively small and gradual as far as falls grow, so I figured it would be a fear-free hike. The hike-at-your-own-risk sign at the trail head put an end to my optimism.

The hike started out in the woods, and as we approached the river, the sloping, tree-studded walls down the gorge did not hold the danger of a sheer drop off (the trees could easily break my fall), so I treaded cautiously down the trail. We followed the gorge until it felt like we were in some sort of hidden, moss-covered cave, almost a fairyland with several small step-like falls, and as long as I stayed on the far side of the trail away from the edge of the gorge, it was a perfectly lovely view. As we progressed down the river, the characteristic roar of the water grew louder and louder, and the drop off to the gorge grew more and more pronounced. Once we approached the main falls, the trail split—one fork followed the edge of the gorge, and one fork went through the woods several feet back from the gorge. I followed the trail into the woods and then stood rooted to my spot, craning my neck to get a view over the edge of the gorge. I caught a glimpse of the top of the waterfall, and that was good enough.

Kev, however, followed the fork that lead along the edge of the gorge and started to take pictures.

“Uh, Kevin,” I called from my safe spot in the woods. “Aren’t you too close? Shouldn’t you come back now?

“Aren’t you going to come and look?” he yelled back.

“I saw it!"

He shrugged and started to whistle. I decided I couldn’t watch and started back down the trail, listening for his whistle to be sure he hadn’t plummeted into the water below.

When Kevin caught up with me, he asked me why I didn’t want to look. “That was so cool! You missed the best part,” he said.

I shrugged sheepishly. “It was too dangerous. There was no guardrail.”

“Keri, I stayed on the trail and my footing was always secure,” he said gently. “I was never in any danger.”

As we hiked back to the car, I contemplated my fear. Staying far back from the edge may have made me feel safe from the danger of death by waterfall I had concocted in my head, but I missed out on the view, which was the entire purpose of our hike.

Fear is tricky like that. Many times I’ve allowed it—yes, it is a choice—to squelch my enthusiasm and nab my joy. Since my mom’s illness and death almost two years ago, the reality that no one is immune from tragedy has left me skittish and open to fear’s cunning. Bad things don’t just happen to people on the news; therefore, I always need to expect the worst—this is what I’ve let fear hoodwink me into believing. Even when I’m handed incredible blessings, I find myself looking over my shoulder wondering if they’re going to suddenly vanish. Talk about missing out on the view! This is no way to live.

I heard it said once that safety and security are not found in the absence of danger; they’re found in the presence of God. I love this! It would be an interesting study to go through the Bible and count how many times God’s people are told not to be afraid, and for good reason. There is, after all, no place to find firmer footing than in the arms of our sovereign Lord. Absolutely nothing is out of his reach.

As waterfall season approaches, I will, of course, stick to the trails, as all good waterfall viewers should, but my prayer these days is for God to vanquish the demon of fear completely from my life and help me enjoy every view I encounter to its fullest, even if doing so means stepping a little bit closer to the edge.

What You Look At Is What You See

My mom didn’t have the best singing voice—at least I never thought so. She once told me that she only got into the high school glee club because the director felt sorry for her. She sang on pitch and could carry a tune well enough, but her voice had harshness to it, especially when she sang out of range. I’m ashamed to say that as a teenager I was embarrassed to sit next to her in church because she sang so loudly and her voice did not blend well with the others. I was certain people were staring at us.

No hymn or praise song that left my mom’s lips was ever lacking in heart, though. Maybe that’s what was embarrassing to the teenage me—instead of just accepting the fact that she wasn’t gifted with a beautiful voice and singing her praises quietly, she sang her praises like she meant them…because she did.

I still have a lot to learn from my mother.

So often I use my perceived lack of gifts to sit life out. The new recipes I try never seem to turn out, so we’ll just have spaghetti again. I’m lousy at socializing with people I don’t know well, so let’s just skip the party. My pictures never turn out right, so I’m going to leave the camera at home. I don’t know as much about the new project at work as so-and-so does, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut at meetings.

A wise friend once said, “What you look at is what you see.” My mom actually had this written in her Bible. (She had the same wise friend.) If I look at what’s lacking, I’ll see what’s lacking and it will, nine times out of ten, stop me from moving forward. If I look at what’s there in abundance…well, let me illustrate:

I’m blessed to have a husband and stepkids who graciously eat everything I cook and actually look forward to my “experiments.”

Wow, how nice to get invited to a party! What a great chance for me to be brave and step outside my comfort zone and make new friends.

The great thing about a digital camera is that you can take hundreds of shots until you get the right one!

It’s such a simple concept but so powerful too: It makes all the difference where we focus our attention. Fear can’t win when I’m looking at courage. Despair can’t win when I’m looking at hope. Self-pity can’t win when I’m looking at thanksgiving.


My mom at the front of the VBS parade, singing praises.

When my mom looked at herself sitting in the pew at church with a hymnal in her hand or walking through the neighborhood at the head of the VBS parade or driving in the car listening to her favorite Christian music CD, she saw a desire to praise the One she loved more than anyone else in the world, not a lack of singing talent (or a silly, embarrassed teenage daughter). And that made all the difference to her.

What I look at is a choice, and I pray I will choose wisely; I want to see myself not as lacking in gifts but as swimming in opportunities to be all God wants me to be. And that is an exciting view!