I’m riding in the skiff, head down, burying my neck in the three coats I layered so carefully. The wind is frigid. I forgot gloves. My hands shrink and fist in the long sleeves of my rain coat. The mountains hover over the water, still wearing their white winter coats. This is May. It’s a cold wintery May. And I’m on my way to fish camp.
How did 8 months of travel pass so fast? How am I here again, riding over steel waters, approaching my 40th season at fish camp?
And was this homecoming beautiful? After planes and trains and subways and jeeps over tens of thousands of miles, didn’t I throw myself over my doorstep, step out of my ruby slippers, slough off my backpack exhaling, “There’s no place like home”?
I didn’t. People would ask me as we traveled, “Don’t you miss Alaska? Don’t you miss home?” I didn’t want to disappoint them. I said I did.
But I lied. The truth is, I felt at home everywhere. Everywhere.
I set off in October with my two youngest sons and my husband, looking around for God in this world. (I am always chasing after Him, though more than half my days I am surely running the other way. He does not hide; it is I who hide from Him. He is not silent, it is I who cannot stop boasting long enough to hear him. )
But there he was In the African bush, the karoo, the French Alps, the island of Patmos, the ruins of Corinth, the townships, a Paris café. In the mountains of Greece. In Pollsmoor prison.
I saw God’s spirit move in mighty ways. But the months passed too fast. I wasn’t ready to leave any of those places. There are people there now whom I love. People I miss. There are churches and publishers and cities and villages I want to see again. Not even mentioning the elephants. Have I told you about the elephants?
We spent a week in Kruger National Park in South Africa, sweltering in 90+ degrees and safari-ing from south to north in our rented car. If love is measured by length of gaze, I surely then love elephants. And this elephant in particular.
There were three at first in this watering hole. Galumphing, cavorting like gazelles in the only element that renders them floatable and suddenly graceful.
After thirty minutes, two of the water beauties tired of hosing one another and solemnly emerged, dripping, plodding off into the trees, with just a single glance behind, “Flora, dear, aren’t you coming?”
But Flora was not coming. Because she knew who she was. She was not an elephant; she was a mermaid. And here in this water all her dreams come true. She longs to be small and lithe, she longs to dance rather than plod, she longs to lunge and sink, to hide, to float, to twirl. And all of this she does and is. And when she’s done, she swishes her shimmering tail and climbs ashore, lumbering off to her daily elephant chores, lighter. Here is 42 seconds of Flora:
Watching that video again now on my Alaskan island, gazing at snowed mountains, hailing rain and a stormy sea, thinking of all that is ahead of us in this salmon season, I remember---
These waters---how sweet and deep they are! This clumsy child of God who limps and trips, she falls into them each summer and remember? She does not drown. She swims. She floats. She spins. Sometimes she even breathes underwater. (And is that a bit of webbing growing between her toes now after 40 seasons?)
I know. The world beckons and shines brighter than our own tiny dim islands. But here. HERE. Is where God has now planted you and me. And it will be sweet, these months, years, however long we must stay. No matter how hard. If God cares about Flora's joy, he cares about yours. Every island, every field, every city, every street has a watering hole as deep and as wide as heaven. It does. Go ahead----Jump in!
And at the end of this season, we shall all say, dripping, with a flick of our (mermaid) tails:
Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy!
Then it was said among the nations,
“The Lord has done great things for them!”
The Lord has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy!
Are you ready to plunge?