Letter No. 23 [lake stars]
Dear Friend,
Last night was a hard one. You know that feeling, when everything makes you want to cry, but you don’t know why exactly, even though there are all of these things contributing to it? You know they’re there, but they don’t seem big enough on their own to be good enough reasons to break down, so you hold them all inside.
When I feel like that, I go to my lake. It’s small and beautiful, and ebbs and flows with business. Its surface is clothed in mist in the morning and setting sun in the evening.
It was already dark when I drove into the parking lot and walked out to the edge of the water.
Something shifts in the wind as you get to the water—there’s a freshness, a wildness, that makes me breathe in deeply and release a little of whatever I’m holding inside when I let my breath out.
The water seems to pull the tears and ache from me. I watched the fading light beyond the hills across the lake, and the boats come in. I watched the twinkle of lights fringing the lake, and I listened to the quiet "Whir" and "plunk!" of the fishermen casting their lines. I was reminded of my Creator, who holds all of these things in His care, and all of my hurts and failures and dreams.
And slowly, as the sky faded into deeper blue and the big dipper became visible above me, everything was alright.
I know you’re out there. I don’t know where, exactly, but I’m thinking of you, and wishing we could be together, and hoping you’re alright too,
Tara