All Good Things

The Good, the Bad, the In-Between

It might be hard to believe, but our stay here in Alaska hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows. No, we haven't been on one long vacation (unfortunately). More like living regular life, with all its daily chores and challenges - just in a super scenic location with bears and beaches and mountains and stuff. It is profoundly harder to show up to a dental appointment on a sunny day or to spend time grocery shopping when you'd rather be outside. Even still, the Walmart being tucked into a picturesque valley certainly makes it easier to run your errands. But alas, life problems still exist - yes, even in Alaska.

Last year our truck broke down and never recovered in my hospital's parking garage during a stretch of very cold, below-zero temperatures. Myself and the security guard tried to jump it multiple times while our nose hairs froze off and our fingers turned red. And when that didn't work, I helped the tow truck driver push it out of the garage in my thin hospital scrubs. It was -10° (ish) and I was seriously questioning the life choices that led me here. But while defrosting in the cab of the tow truck, I sat and stared, spell-bound at the biggest, clearest moon I've ever seen on the horizon, the trees around me draped in white frost, and the icy air sparkling in the a.m. sun. Even the driver commented on the beautiful morning, and I briefly forgot how miserable it had been. That's the thing about Alaska, no matter what you're going through, it is always showing off.

So this March, when I broke my leg climbing Denali - ahem, tripping at work - I tried really hard to appreciate the things that I could see from my recliner, but my heart longed to be on the other side of the window. I watched as the last few snowfalls transformed the driveway and then melted away, as twilight crept later and later, as Lady A danced green in the night sky while I craned my neck to catch a glimpse through the glass. I screeched when a fat spring black bear walked up to the window and surprised us all before Copper howled and hollered and sent him trotting away. Everyday I stared at the mountaintops, permanently etching each ridgeline into my memory - so I can visit them any time I like. I guess if you're gonna have to be laid up somewhere, then a cabin in the mountains will do you just fine.

Sanctuary Summer

After a while, my leg started healing, and with it, my heart. So when the first stretch of sunny summer weather arrived, you just know we were camping down by the river. Shep built sandcastles for hours and, as usual, tried to swim in his undies only to be immediately washed by regret (this is water from a glacier in Alaska, afterall). I struggled to get on and off the air mattress and we were low-key freezing each evening. But there was just something about the way the light filtered through the trees and sparkled on the water that made me want to throw on an extra layer and stay forever. We had a little family church by the campfire where Shepherd led us in song and Cameron preached and the birds formed a choir in the trees. I thought about the towering granite behind us and how God had carved His own cathedral here, long long ago; the boulders for pews, a carpet of moss, the ravens calling out like prophets. This must be what the scriptures meant by "God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man." You see, He longs to dwell with us, and here I am sitting smack dab in the middle of His dwelling place, in His sanctuary of stone.

A little later in summer we headed down the peninsula for a few days of resting and beachcombing and sharing camp meals with some of our dear friends. Situated on a bluff across from several Pacific volcanoes, this campground made for the most surreal midnight sunsets. On our first night here I read a news article titled "Iliamna volcano in Alaska rumbling despite being dormant for over 100 years." How exciting, I thought. Back in our cabin, Shep and I watched a Mount St. Helens documentary to prepare and stir our imaginations (you know, just in case). Each day we all went out during low tide and found starfish and crabs and eagles in abundance - wandering and then calling out to the group when we'd find something exciting. I flipped a rock and nearly fell over when a couple of unexpected eels slithered out, and the kids studied colonies of hermit crabs crawling in the tide pools. One evening, as the sun dipped low in the sky, we walked the shoreline to a little hidden swing tucked away in the trees. Ahead of us, a lone seal living its best life in the sand. I sat on some driftwood and listened to the waves and watched our kids play in the golden sun. I'm not even sure I have the words to explain the overwhelming peace I felt in this place. Simply put, this was the kind of evening that held its own sermon - surrounded by stillness, a celebration of light, the holiness of just being present. That night, I went to bed grateful for friends that feel like family and places that feel like heaven on earth.

Finale

In May, the remaining snow melted, the days felt curiously longer, and green bloomed on every tree. As expected, the rivers rose in June and wildflowers opened overnight. The lupines of early summer gave way to the fuchsia fireweed of mid-July. And the cottonwood swirled through the air, right on time; the same as it did the year before, and the year before that. Just like clockwork, the seasons change and everything moves on. And so it is, with us.

As they say, all good things must come to an end.

The original plan had not been to stay in Alaska forever, but gosh, can someone tell that to my heart? I had openly hoped that we might just settle in and forget that Texas was calling, that we might forget to drive home, that Alaska might forget to release us from its grip. I'm not exaggerating when I say this - the last two years have been the absolute adventure of our lives. It feels like a blur, like the kind of dream you hope to never wake from. I close my eyes and the memories wash over me and through me and it's all there, all at once - beautiful, brutal, breathtaking.

We have barely scratched the surface here, to be sure. But in a few weeks' time, just as the air gets crisp and the leaves exchange green for gold, we will start heading south. For now (in lieu of tears), I'm trying to focus on what I can control - like squeezing in another Alaskan experience or two and, of course, time with our friends. No days wasted. The truth is, I'll be grieving this place for a while, and nowhere will ever compare. So if you see me out and about, sweating on a hot day back home, we'll exchange pleasantries and I'll smile and say I'm fine. But just know that inside I'm still standing somewhere under the mountains, whispering into the cold wind,

"See you again someday.

Alaska, my old friend."