Living close to the 45th parallel, there’s a scent sometimes – often on cool mornings after rainy nights – that appears and transports me to a sacred place. (Also close to the 45th parallel.)
It happened the other morning, as I walked out to get the mail.
Earthy. Fresh. Crisp. Full of possibility.
Uncanny.
That same evening, unprompted, my husband told me we’d soon have an opportunity to travel to that sacred place.
I was simultaneously heartened… and heartbroken.
I gasped. My cheeks probably flushed. I think I croaked, “Maybe”?
Was I ready?
Would I ever be ready?
You know how you can suffer a huge loss, grieve and mourn, but somehow the reality of it can – for the most part – stay tucked away because you don’t have to confront the loss head on?
Here we are.
(Deep slooooow exhale.)
Today we’re en route to one of the most special places in my life. A place of sparkling kettle lakes spread over 350 acres of rolling green lands. Paper birch trees swaying in the temperate northern Michigan summers. This place is a Lutheran camp I attended as a middle and high schooler, worked at for 4 amazing summers, and the place I met my husband (when I was 16), fell in love with him (at 22), and married him (at 24).
The last time I was there was in late 2014, because it is no longer a camp.
At the time word went out about it closing, there was a flurry of anger, outrage, action. What can we do? How can we save camp? Don’t the powers that be have any vision? Don’t they understand the magic, the spirit, the holiness of this place?
The answers were unsatisfactory and the grief was immense. Along with many other former staff members, we visited for the last time in the fall of 2014. We shared memories, stories we’d told a million times, laughed until we cried, sang around the campfire, and grappled what out lives would look like without our camp – our home – as our North Star, where relationships were born and where we could always gather.
My words simply won’t do this place justice.
At the time, my family was still living in Maryland. Our camp experiences in those days were wonderful, though distant and different. But when we’d make the journey home, our camp was very often part of that magic of coming home.
But we also had distance.
I could grieve, I could lament.
But I could also deal with my sadness, my anger, my pain … in doses. And by compartmentalizing it, tucking it neatly away in most circumstances.
Today we drive to a nature preserve that was bought by a nature conservancy. The buildings where we ate meals, did crafts, bonded with our campers, held rainy day games, told stories, danced, connected, did skits… are all gone. Where the sounds of campers laughing and playing and singing and chanting danced across the lakes… are now quiet. Where we stepped into our faith lives, made lifelong bonds, fell in love, had first kisses… will never have those happenings again.
Yes. I’m thankful the land is still there, preserved. It hasn’t been destroyed, developed.
But in a place that had so much spirit over 50 summers, it now sits silent and still.
There are still peepers and frogs, woodpeckers and wildlife singing, but the energy of our summers past is all but erased.
This place has a memory attached to every step. I’m worried that each missing place will simply break my heart open.
I have a noble wish I’ll arrive with a thankful heart for all camp was. Or a deep recognition that seasons change and endings and beginnings are linked in holy ways. Or a profound sense that it was all meant to be this way.
Even if I can somehow pull that off, my heart may also be a soppy torn up grieving mess.
Dealing and feeling are certainly not always mutually exclusive.
I remember back to when my mom died in 2004. I wanted to visit home, spend time with my grieving and heartbroken dad. We needed time together and to walk that path together.
But I also didn’t want to go back home, because she was no longer there.
Her absence made it such a different place to be. It was a long time before I didn’t search for her each time, longing to encounter her.
It took time.
And practice –
Practice at constantly acknowledging that she wasn’t there anymore.
I couldn’t easily tuck away the reality of her absence.
Confronting loss is such a terribly hard thing to do.
But it also seems to be very necessary.
Not because it allows us to magically move on and stop hurting. We will still hurt. We will still wish things could be different.
But confronting can remind us that hurt doesn’t generally have the final word.
Confronting loss can bring up stories, memories. There may be memories in every step, but there’s joy and healing in never running out of stories to tell.
It is never comfortable, but it can be a necessary journey.
It may not be for all the people that loved this place, but it feels necessary for me.
I may never be ready, but “ready” is a control thing and it’s usually not rooted in reality.
We’re still driving, but we’ll be there soon. I see well known landmarks.
I always used to arrive with butterflies of excitement in my stomach. My stomach is doing something, but it doesn’t feel like excitement. And ugh… today my sweat smells like stress sweat.
And the rain is coming down now, more steadily.
It feels fitting, though it won’t wash away the pain of loss. Or make me (or the situation) less stinky.
Wish me luck. ❤
alive. awake. uncomfortable. 