Over the last few months, I've been thinking about a particular story from my childhood. It has continued tugging at me, begging to be written. It's a story I know like the back of my hand. I've told it many times to those who are close to me, but I had just never gotten around to writing it down. Finally, I sat down and did it. Once I was finished, the tugging feeling didn't stop. The best way I can describe it is a "heart craving." My heart longed not just to write about it, but to visit the physical setting where the story took place. I desired to feel, smell, see, and experience the beauty I remembered of this place, and see what would come to the surface if I returned. Here's what happened.
Over Father’s Day weekend, I returned to my childhood vacation spot in small town, Pekin, Illinois, for a day of fishing with my Ol’ Dad.
These waters hold so much of me.
I’ve been afraid to return here, though. It’s been 15 years, but I felt ready to go back and remember the beauty and heartache it brings up.
This was once a place of shalom for me. A place where my soul felt alive. It brought out my wildest, earthy side. I embraced this humble, lily-pad-laden lake with my whole body.
I kissed this lake and every fish, frog, and turtle that swam in it. Sunk my feet into the mud, jumped with abandon off the dock, and ate my weight in watermelon and fried fish.
It wasn’t the family vacation I saw my friends going on, though. There were no Disney ears, souvenirs, or bags of shells to show off. And like a true pre-teen, this embarrassed me at times. I felt my heart begin to turn against the beauty that little me found here.
But deep down, I loved it. Our family would gather with my dad’s childhood friends and their kids year after year at this quirky little cabin, etching memories into the walls. We were like a little tribe, alive in this place—together.
But the shalom I felt here began to fracture when my parents divorced, and then it entirely shattered when one of the kids in our tribe died in a tragic accident while we were camping. Two members of the tribe were suddenly gone.
Now, at 31, love has been drawing me back to this formative place. Love for my little self, who has been tugging at my shirt, asking when we can go again. Love from my husband, who can sit with curiosity in the beauty and heartache, love for my dad, who calls this his place of worship, and the love of God, who longs to heal and redeem everything.
Looking back at all those years spent on the lake, I’m thankful to have a dad who taught me to see the wild goodness of this world in the simplest people and places.
But even more, I’m thankful for the courage to cast another line in these waters.
As Dan Allender says in his book, To Be Told, “For many of us, recalling those moments produces not nostalgia and pleasure but significant sadness. Those times are gone, and often they were lost when shalom was shattered. But it is crucial to remember those moments when our story was at peace and we felt the warm and kind wind that blew from Eden into our lives."
This day trip to the lake is similar to how I walk with others as a story work facilitator. Like my husband did with me, I desire to go back to the places where you once found delight and goodness—except through a written story. My heart is to hold that beauty in tandem with all that was shattered. As your facilitator, we will:
