In the sixth year

It was the sixth year and it began on the northern shores of Lake Superior where the crashing waves met the jagged rocks composing the most beautiful of symphonies.  The wild, bitter winds crashed along the point where artists come for inspiration and to be small before the power of nature, as the shoreline burst forth in green and one lighthouse stood tall and strong. The fireplace crackled as they relished in a sweet reprieve.

Four states and two kids later, they once again found themselves hearing the call of adventure.   Change whispered in the daylight and roared by the light of the moon.  It was a small sense, but the biggest things begin that way, and it lingered through the autumn and into the winter; which lingers in Minnesota.  They looked into the expanse of the unknown, knowing only this, not here, this is not home.   His family remained un-plucked from their roots, but hers was long since spread, severed, and scattered to begin again in new fragments.  The idea of home, for these two adventuring souls seemed something attainable by all but them. The way that most understand the very thing they seek and struggle to find.  And perhaps home ceased to be a geographical location, but a spirit of living, but whatever the bewildering definition, it wasn’t this.

With the switching of calendars it came, and in months the pieces fell into place, as a sense of disbelief lingered in the air.  Could it be this easy? Is this really happening? And the truck was filled to capacity, no empty space was left in the family car as they drove away one March morning,  as the sun rose in the rear view mirror, over the snow covered ground.

They traveled east through the mountains and as they descended upon the new place, on the opposite coast of where this story began. A wave of welcome met them there, with familiar faces, helping hands and iced coffee.  It was a sweet and comforting lining that softened the new.

Then the hard began.  The part where huge, daring, and brave ideals collide with reality.  Children uprooted, searching for jobs in this shifting era,  the exhaustion of it all hitting at once.  The aftermath of the jump.  The part dreamers rarely see, which is a blessing and a curse, for it makes acting easier, but the landing is more brutal. 

Together, they knew and believed, remembering the voice that had lead them this far.  Long days of doing and praying and waiting came.   Little bits of reprieve were strategically placed in between what would feel like the greatest challenge to date. This was hard.  In the long looks and quiet, tired smiles, they remembered the long list of impossibilities and challenges that had long since passed, surely we’ll get to the other side of this too.  The collection from years one through five had prepared them, even when they felt stretched beyond all possibility.  The foundation had been laid, fortified by time and grace and love.

It was a year both weary and wonderful, where long awaited prayers were answered on the path littered with many new, because all the best and most beautiful things are worth giving every drop you can muster, loving with every inch and fiber, and living fearlessly into the unknown.  And when you think it’s too hard or too long, love squeezes your hand, walking beside you, sleeping by your side. 

In the sixth year,  they dreamed and launched forward with wild, daring hope.  They loved, laughed, and held on in the dark, when nothing else seemed certain, but the constant that surrounded them. Little children kept growing, bringing new magic and naturally, new challenge.  Memories were etched into the story.  The days were long, difficult, and beautiful, as the building years are. 

It was the end of year six and they looked forward with wild hope, strengthened by a fiery love, and the journey.