My Cathedral

When I was in my early teens, my family took a road trip that led us along the south shore of Lake Superior. Our destination was Bayfield, but we stopped in the village of Cornucopia. The name of this town resonated with the aspiring writer in me, and I wandered away from my family to explore. The Lake was calm that day and slapped lazily against the fishing boats docked at the weather-worn pier. The air smelled vaguely of fish. Seagulls flew overhead and called to each other in off-key squawks. Tall grass scratched my bare legs as I followed the narrow path to the beach, where the full expanse of the Lake lay before me, an ocean of jewels catching the noontime sun. And I stood there, statue-still, as if any movement would destroy the moment when all that existed in my world were me and the Lake. The sights and smells and sounds from that day became so fixed in my mind that when we returned to the same place decades later, I knew exactly where I was.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the Lake; we’d been to Duluth a few times and had driven along the northern shore, through Canada to Sault Ste. Marie. There’s a picture of me sitting on a ledge somewhere near the Soo Locks, looking both thrilled and terrified by the cold, deep water I was determined not to fall into and by the size of the freighters moving through. On that same trip I got seasick on the ferry to Mackinac Island and was allowed the rare treat of a bottle of root beer when we finally reached the shore, which, to the 10-year-old me, was probably the highlight of the experience. And yet, I still remember.

Years later, Kevin and I started making annual trips up to the North Shore to camp and enjoy some quiet time together. I looked forward to those trips for months, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be than sitting on a sunbaked boulder next to the Lake. I wasn’t able articulate the feeling I got whenever I was near the Lake, except that when it was time for us to leave, I was homesick for weeks afterward. A year after my mother died, it was sitting on a wooden swing within earshot of Lake Superior’s waves when I was finally able to compose the complete record of her death.

And now the Lake is a character in my story. I have only to look out my office window to see her in the distance or walk a few blocks to see her up close. I watch her, study her, try to understand her and her ever-changing personalities and moods. She’s rarely predictable, and that’s one thing I love the most about her.  

Sometimes, the wind rattles the rigging of the sailboats docked in the marina, producing a haunting clang, clang, clang, and the Lake hurls herself against the old coal dock, throwing up cold sheets of water that sting my face if I get too close. I’m drawn to her when she’s angry, fascinated by her raw strength. She could eat me alive—she has taken many down with her. And so I keep my distance.

When the sun is shining and a steady breeze stirs the trees, waves skip across the boulders that line the lakeshore in some places, sending a playful, sparkly splash into the air. If the weather is warm, I take off my shoes and put my feet in the sand at the beach, just at the edge of the water line. I close my eyes and feel the waves wash over my toes and swirl around my ankles, leaving behind a trail of bubbles and foam.

At times she’s conflicted, and the waves can’t seem to find their rhythm. She’s restless, pacing this way and that among the rocks and islands and docks, at the whim of the wind and season. I watch and feel unsettled; she is not the only one with decisions to make.

And then she rests—almost completely still but for a gentle gurgling as water meets rock. Her surface reflects the shimmering reds and purples of the setting sun, and I sit in the sand, knees to my chest, watching and waiting for the moonlight.

It’s through this Lake, this magnificent, beautiful cathedral, that my Creator speaks a language I can understand. It mirrors His power and mercy and peace. It’s where He energizes and rejuvenates me and calms my spirit. Perhaps King David knew the feeling when he spoke in his most famous psalm of being lead beside the still water and being given restoration for his soul. There is no other place I know that feels the same. It’s where I can think and create and, sometimes, just breathe.

When people ask me why we moved to Washburn, I might tell them about our desire to own a piece of land and have a little farm and about how, over a period of a few years and regular visits, we started to fall in love with the community. This
is absolutely true. But the thing that drew us to this area in the first place—the thing at the heart of our search for the perfect place to settle down for the long haul and build a life—is, quite simply, the Lake. When I tell people this, people who live here, they get a light in their eyes because they know exactly what I mean. She is, after all, part of their stories too.