This is the road that Mike and I took to get to the lake on our leisurly drive a few days ago. When I was a young girl, my family took this road every weekend possible to play at the lake.
We began by camping in tents near shore and later bought a tiny cabin with no running water or plumbing. Wasps ruled the outhouse. Heat took over most days and was relentless most nights. But when the sun was high on those summer days and the wind was still, I loved the lake, my lake.
Exploring the beaches
Submerging for the highest count
Swimming to exhaustion
Learning to ski by taking off from Dad's arms with my knees tucked into my chest until the pull of the boat pulled me upright and I was off! Ahhhhh! I'm skiing! Hold on! I'm skiing! I'm SKIING!!! Jump some waves! Hold on! WooHoo!! Enjoy the view!
All those times at the lake and I hadn't remembered it.
A line of mailboxes in our cabin community
A post and Sumac
When I was a young girl, Kanopolis Lake seemed like my lake. It wasn't mine, but it welcomed me and surrounded me and in some way it knew me then. It refreshed and generously offered a place to play and dream and climb and run and swim and a place to Discover.
It was a secret finder and a secret keeper. It was creation showing attributes of a God Who called me to Himself long before I acknowledged Him. My memories crept up softly and boldly when Mike and I drove around. I desired to conclude some thoughts, not for closure's sake, but for a deeper understaning of childhood. The lake gives and asks nothing back, but the giving is in gentle waves. Gentle and consistent. And as quickly as the waves wash the shore, they recede and take back their secrets.