Each time I try to sit down and write this post, words fail
me. It is for this reason that I
surrender my desire to create a narrative that is eloquent and profound. Some
things defy explanation, and as long as we live on this side of
Heaven, there will be those things that we can't fully grasp or understand.
This precious island on the coast of Maine is one of these
things. My heart lives on this island. It is the closest I’ve ever been to
perfection. It’s the kind of place where time and schedules don’t exist and you can hear
God’s voice whispering through tall trees.
The island has been in my family since the 1800s. The
pictures that line the walls of our house reflect generations of people who
loved and cherished it as much as I do. Though I am too young to have known
them, we are linked by an unmistakable and enduring bond.
Our trip to Maine this fall was simply wonderful. Blood orange
sunrises led to brilliant blue days. Long morning hikes led to lazy porch afternoons. Farm-fresh dinners led to campfires and card games after dark. We
shared stories and had conversations. We chased dogs and picked brussel
sprouts. We sat on the dock and stared at the stars. We lived life in a way
that only seems possible on a sacred spot in Maine.
No one who has ever visited the island has left the same.
The misty eyes and tight throats that come forth as the boat slowly pulls away from
the dock are evidence of changed hearts. There’s a sense of gratitude for
having been there and loss for having to say goodbye. As hard as it is to
leave, goodbyes are only temporary. I am fortunate in that I married a man who
loves the island as much as I do. We make a point to remember it in
our daily lives–through stories, photographs, and big rocks used as doorstops.
Even when the island feels a million miles away, these things remind us that it really does exist.