Journey: Filled to the Brim
If everyone could experience the tug of a fish on the line and a barefoot run through freshly cut grass, I think we would all understand each other a little better. We might not agree, but that shared relatedness could buffer our differences. Our family’s move to Georgia three years ago offered us a chance to experience those kind of things. And, while we don't always agree (and occasionally we step in ant hills with those bare feet), we do have a pretty good understanding of one another.
We chose to live in a rural environment, something we were craving after being sandwiched in a crowded subdivision for six years. We now host campfires under star-scattered skies, while my husband deejays classic country music on a bluetooth speaker and our kids proudly sing along to old Johnny Cash songs. They assemble s'mores at a little table he made just for that sticky purpose. When the Big Dipper seems to shine a little brighter in the sky, our playlist of choice changes to the simple crackling of the bonfire and a nighttime chorus of crickets and tree frogs. It never gets old. Ever.
In summers, our little forest is invaded with lightning bugs – ones that are a lot harder to catch than those I grew up with in Kentucky. After numerous, disappointing escapes from sweaty, cupped hands, we soon conceded to simply admire them from afar. A tall treehouse sits among a group of looming Georgia pines which canopy the back portion of our property like a crescent moon. It’s one of my favorite places to go because of the bird’s eye view of our little piece of heaven. It overlooks a small lake that, at times, has been so full we thought it might overflow.
It rained every day for two weeks straight right after we moved here, filling the lake to its brim, and giving the greedy fish more room to explore. When the sun finally emerged, we spent many nights that first summer with my husband’s pickup truck pulled up next to it, the tailgate down with a well-stocked tackle box and the youngest of our kiddos continually claiming the bed of the truck as her dance floor. We eagerly casted hopeful lines into the water, over and over. Despite the music blaring through the speakers of the Silverado, those tenacious little fish took their chances and boldly tugged on our hooks just enough to get a taste of our bait, pulling the bobbers with them below the surface. (It was as if they knew they were going to get thrown back anyway.) It didn’t matter which one of us was holding the rod and reel, there was a shared excitement each time we hooked a “big one.”
That summer, our palms were continually peppered with the dirt that trailed our squiggly red worm bait. Despite my urge to break out the hand sanitizer, I was immensely grateful for this slimy and wonderful experience. The kids learned to be patient as they waited for a bite, and the older two eventually were taking fish off the hooks all on their own. That lake became our entertainment on most weekends the first couple of years here, and we gratefully accepted a night in the country over a night on the town. The lake was one of the reasons why we bought the property, and I soon began taking daily walks around it. I referred to them as my “thankfulness walks,” and at first everyone made fun of me. (Okay, they still do.) I didn’t care. I pulled on my boots, grabbed a walking stick (in case of snake encounter, then I would be protected, right?) and began my daily ritual. Sometimes, I invited the kids to join me, especially if there was something for which I thought we all should be particularly grateful. Most of the times they turned me down. Occasionally, they joined me in the quiet reverie and I enjoyed sharing this newfound tradition with them, even when they broke the no-talking-rule. For me, the lake was a symbol of God’s abundance and his blessing us with this beautiful place to live and enjoy. Those “thankfulness walks” became one of my favorite parts of the day, and if no one could find me around the house, they would turn to the lake, knowing that was my place of refuge.
A while into our second year here, we noticed the lake beginning to lose water. It’s fed by a natural spring and we didn’t have quite as much rain as the summer prior. The level sank lower than we had ever seen it and we constantly were sleuthing its banks to determine how and why the water chose to flow in the nearby stream instead of the heart of the lake. I led the girls in “rain dances,” hopeful that Mother Nature would help our cause. Come late fall, when the ground became cold and the rains did come, we were blessed with it filling back to its edges. That winter, it was covered in a quiet, white blanket of snow. The stillness of its winter dressing and its surrounding snowy landscape seemed like a walk in an enchanted forest rather than my own backyard. Once again, I was humbled by its beauty.
Last spring, however, the water level began to drop substantially more than it had before, and we soon deemed it “unfishable.” Instead of being thankful on my walks, I became filled with anxiety as I watched the beauty of this small little body of water fade into a dried dirt mound, littered with tree limbs that once were submerged. The bed cracked in the dryness of the summer heat and my heart sank, knowing our Saturday nights wouldn’t be spent along its tiny shore. No more thankfulness walks.
It has taken me a while to get used to this new lake, that’s not really a lake. I know that it would take a heck of a lot of water to fill it back up, but my children are more gullibly impressed with each bout of precipitation. Whenever it has rained in the last two years, the girls will say, “At least it’s filling up our lake.” They don’t look at the rain as a deterrent from fun. They look at it as part of a solution. They say it in a way that’s meant to ease my sadness, and I skeptically nod in fake agreement, trying unsuccessfully to hide my disappointment.
Earlier this spring, we endured a health scare with our youngest daughter. I suspected something was wrong with her, but my 17.5 years of parenting experience was of no use in diagnosing it. My husband was out of town, and my anxious mother’s heart was swelling with fear. I walked around that lake with my little eight-year-old’s hand in mine as she endured the symptoms and I watched in complete helplessness. With each step, I pleaded with God to give me the strength to handle whatever we might have to face. The lack of water was nothing compared to my lack of confidence in addressing her health concerns.
It took several months, but eventually her symptoms lessened and our fears were relieved. I resumed my walks, not daily, but when I felt confident I could circle its banks without dwelling on loss and fear, but instead on finding beauty within its rough, cracked foundation. I learned a lot about faith and parenting during that summer of panic, and I began being thankful for the opportunities to heal from the experience. I collected wildflowers and weeds around the spring and brought the bouquets back to enjoy around the house. There was still beauty to be found.
For more than 45 days this past fall, our Georgia skies were completely dry. Not a drop. Grasses turned brown. Forests fires burned. Without any rain, our lake continued to shrink to a glorified puddle. I walked into its bed and pulled out the old limbs, stepping in places that were once four or six feet under water. My husband drove the lawn mower into the lake, cutting down the weeds that had overtaken its bottom. It was a cleaning out of sorts and it felt good to get all the undergrowth under control. Instead of ignoring it, we began nurturing it.
Life here, “out in the country,” has offered us seasons of abundant joy and periods of uncertainty – much like our lake. Sometimes we have been filled to the brim, and others we have felt depleted. Throughout it all, there has been an underlying faith. Often, it has been in the form of pure thankfulness, and other times it has been in the tear-filled, eyes-raised-to-heaven pleading that everything would be okay. The night our oldest daughter walked away unharmed from a major car wreck, I grabbed my boots and pounded the lake banks in heartfelt gratitude and a humbling so intense that no lack of water or absence of aesthetic beauty could overshadow the miracle of her being okay.
December finally brought the much needed precipitation that everyone in our region had been praying for. The fires finally subsided, and our lake has begun to fill just enough to resemble it actually once was a lake, albeit a very small one. Perhaps this approaching season of cold will constrict the ground enough for it to hold water. Maybe, we’ll get lucky and another covering of snow will come. Whatever the case, I’ve decided to resume my daily thankfulness walks, and appreciate the beauty of this life, despite its outward appearances.
Journeys of thankfulness aren’t just reserved for when we’re blessed abundantly. I'm learning that sometimes our growth comes from the depletion of perceived gifts. Perhaps it’s times of drought when we are most blessed with opportunities to grow. Sometimes we need to simply be thankful for what we have, whether we're filled to the brim or not – and just go for a walk.
