Seven Years at The Little Lake House

Sitting at the front door, 2017

It had charmed me from the start.

The house was indeed ‘cute as a button,’ just like the listing had said. And just like a tender love story, it was the combination of the home’s many small and soft-spoken idiosyncrasies that, in the end, made me fall head over heels. The house was everything. But more specifically, it was its maroon shutters and purple phlox flowers flanking the front door; it was its tiny bedrooms and side-by-side washer and drier. It was the laminate floors. And the ancient stove top with its analog clock and clunky knobs. The pièce de résistance, though, was the living room: the high, cathedral ceilings and beckoning French doors that opened to a tree-studded view of the crisp, calm lake. My heartstrings pulled me in one direction, and one direction only: towards a life lived slowly and fully—richly—with my two palms cupped around a warm mug, sipping coffee at daybreak, in that living room.

I put in an offer to buy the house, and closed on it the following month. My underwriter gifted me a bottle of wine, and the former owner gave me the keys. I was twenty-five years old.

I’m thirty-two now, and no longer a stranger to this home—nor a myriad of other things I never thought I’d own. Like health insurance, mom jeans, and a bottle of retinol in my bathroom cabinet; like a cat, a marathon medal, and a heart that’s sometimes scared to hope. Time is both a relentless foe and a kindest friend, and we never quite know which face of it we’ll get. It has been both for me. But here I am, standing—albeit a bit slumped—still willing to drink coffee past 4pm and go skinny dipping at dusk. For that, I’m thankful.

When I first bought this house seven years ago, it was nameless. It was just another time-worn cottage with a mossy roof and patchy upgrades. I’m not even sure the former owner ever lived here full-time—an assumption I drew after spotting a mini-fridge in the corner of the kitchen during my pre-inspection tour. It was just a little white house with red shutters, sitting quietly down a forgotten dirt road. It had been on the market for months and no one was interested. I could understand why: there was no dishwasher, no air conditioning, no internet access. The paint colors were awful, and the deck needed to be re-stained at best or redone at worst. Yet, there was something inside of me—a God-given perspective, perhaps—that could (and still can) envision the possibilities blurred by brokenness and imagine the beauty buried by dust. And I could just see in my mind’s eye what a wonderful little home that this house could be.

And so, The Little Lake House was born.

In the seven years I’ve been here, this home has held me. And I’ve held it back. These four walls have held the most crucial moments and refining seasons of my adulthood formation. The deepest cuts and highest joys of my twenties and early thirties all live here. Here. It’s been my respite in times of chaos—like the pandemic of 2020, and my own personal dark night of the soul in 2018. It’s been my peace in an ocean of swirling emotions—like when I cried on the living room floor, my heart shattered like a mirror by a boy whose reflection I no longer trusted or believed. This home has held me in times of joy—drawing out inner reservoirs of creativity and beauty, carrying me along with lucky happenstance and electricity. It’s where I learned to sew my own clothes and master the homemade croissant. It’s held countless laughs, naps, friends, and dinner parties. The way the evening light traces the living room walls at golden hour sends both a thrill and a deep calm to my abdomen. Just like the towering oak trees in my tiny backyard, I am deeply planted here.

I remember being filled to the brim with dread and anxiety when I finally considered what exactly I had done: I bought a house. I’m hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I am alone. Yet, I need help all the time. I have never been truly alone. My dad is the first person I call when anything breaks, and my brother-in-law once helped me change four lightbulbs in ten minutes. My friends helped paint the living room walls. I live delicately perched atop the strong shoulders of those who came before me, and of those who have helped me. I’m a conglomerate image of all the people I’ve known—and the facets of their personalities that I’ve either rejected or melted into my own. And most importantly, I am an ever-changing, never-perfect image of the never-changing, ever-perfect God who created me. The God who formed, found, and named me is the same God I’ve wrestled with, ran from, clung to, and tried to believe… all while tenderly existing inside the four walls and windows of my sweet Little Lake House.

I’ve always wanted my home to be a place of unwavering peace. And I’ve always thought that I was the only one to see its beauty and brimming potential. Because I was the one who searched. I was the one who found. I settled here and made this place my own. The Little Lake House, contented sigh. I fixed, ordered, named. This place was, and still is, an expression of my greatest love and deepest care. Yet, as I was finding, fixing, and naming, so was God. To me. He found me. He led me. He fixed me and guided me here—to this home, and through every storm and joy. He sanded the rough edges of my soul by trial, grief, and waiting. He deepened my trust by those same things, plus grace. He healed me. And I am forever held by his careful hands.

I am not the same person today that I was seven years ago—and neither is this little white house I get to call home. Praise God for that.

…plus a million other things.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations…

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.”

Psalm 90:1+14

Note. This is a seven-year follow-up from my original post, titled “The Hands That Mold Us.” You can find and read this post on my original blog, located here.

One Thirty-Nine

It takes more than four walls

to hold my soul;

I need an open window

but also a lock.

This delicate dance of freedom and safety—

and you hold both.

But how many times have I threatened

to pack my bags and leave?

Not in hatred

but in fear,

after all the shattered fragments

of my deepest illusions

were left scattered,

finally,

at my feet.

I worked so hard to sweep them out the door, with haste and shame in the curl of my hands—

but you wouldn’t let me.

Where can I flee from your presence?

Instead

you gathered every broken bit of glass;

pressed them close to your heart;

And wept.

If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

You shatter my low expectations

instead of my heart.

Your hands hold the truth of who I am.

Freedom and safety follow me, wherever I go.

You are my walls,

my window,

my lock.

And I’ll spend my days spreading thin these desperate fingers,

tilting my life towards the edge of your frame,

reaching for home.

—One Thirty-Nine, an original poem

Equations

In grade school, you are are taught

that the world is composed of formulas.

E=mc2

y=mx+b

c2=a2+b2

You’re guaranteed to get the answer, they say,

if only you plug in the right values.

---

In adolescence, you are taught

that formulas ensure certain outcomes.

Kindness given = kindness received

Safety = prudence + precaution

Success = work + time

You’re guaranteed to get the results, they say,

if only you plug in the right actions.

---

What they don’t tell you is how equations

Are caged by the hypothetical.

I never knew the instability of an equal sign

Until the first time I failed a test was also

the time I studied the hardest.

---

Because life doesn’t add up when

He prefers her > you

Or when time ≠ healing

And when all you’ve done is < enough.

---

I’ve heard people say that life isn’t fair.

But what I think they mean

Is that life isn’t linear.

It goes up and down

Through and around

In equations only the Father knows.

---

Jesus, author of all,

Is unbound by formula.

With two fish and five loaves, five thousand were fed.

With water and jars, wine was made.

With one life given, many are saved.

Death = life

Light > darkness

First < last

---

Equations don’t translate to flesh and blood

To sinew and bone

To hearts and timelines.

Only presence, patience, and care can.

---

In adulthood, I am learning.

To engage with life

not by formulas

but with love.

— Equations, a poem (2021)

A Prayer for Those Who Just Want to Feel Something

Heavenly Father, we confess that we have been sleepwalking through our days. We’ve stumbled through moments when we should have been present; we’ve been blind to the beauty around us, however small. We admit, in half-shame, that although we’ve heard ourselves laughing, we’re shocked by its hollowness—at the smiles that don’t seem to penetrate our souls.

We admit our yearning for more—for joy; for satisfaction; for meaning. For the ecstasy of love. We long to know, once more, the tenderness of childhood & the hope that so easily sprung forth when we were still naïve to our world.

We hunger to feel alive again—fully alive—to every movement, breath, glance. We want to behold a sunset and feel shivers run down our arms; we want to belly laugh, scream, cry. We long to bear witness to the humanity of others & have the experience of it bring us to our knees—in awe, thanks, and wonder. 

This is to say: we long to live our lives into their fullest expressions. We want to taste the satisfactions of a life well-lived.

We’ve been reaching for things that can’t bring us joy—true joy, the kind that erases all emptiness. We confess our void to you, loving Father. Find us in our brokenness; our numbness; our self-pity & apathy. Find us here, once more, in the place we said we’d never visit twice: forsaking the small, yet precious, gifts of the present.

Help us look ahead with hope, but meet us right here as we are. Help us see you: you who are beginning & end; alpha & omega; creator, redeemer, friend. Help cease our mindless scrolling, believing joy to be just around the corner—across the street, in our neighbor’s yard, somewhere in the distant future—instead of right now, here, today. 

We ask you to reinfuse our days with joy. Give meaning to our monotony, & rouse our souls to a purpose beyond ourselves. Give us eyes to seek and find you in the dull, everyday existence of things. Awaken our souls from their slumber and make us alive to the reality of your presence. Give us new hearts that understand the beauty in all things, including you. You have seen, made, and known us. Let that knowledge seep and soak us to our core: that we are deeply, wholly, and perfectly loved.

The boundary lines for us have fallen in pleasant places. For you have come to us that we may have life, and have it in full. Be with us as we step boldly into that new life—filled to the brim with wonder, awe, and trust.

Amen.

Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;

my body also will rest secure,

because vou will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,

nor will you let your faithful one see decay.

You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

-Psalm 16:9-11

He is More

Jesus is more

Than a tool for behavior modification.

He is more

Than an exercise in rational thought,

A prop to be put up,

A mask to be worn,

an act to adopt

on Sunday mornings.

He is not a platform to be exploited

Nor a veil of performative love,

And he is more than the empty words

We tell each other in the tempest of the storm:

Hollow,

Lifeless,

Appeasing.

Jesus is more.

He is the living word

That quells the tide;

The outstretched arm

That traverses waves,

As our lives cataclysmically beat upon the shore.

He is our

Steady

Unchanging

Truth;

The anchor for our souls.

Jesus is more.

He is the good shepherd

That leaves the ninety-nine for the one,

A ratio that even the sharpest minds

Can’t seem to add up.

But this is the math of heaven,

And maybe it’s us

Who have it upside down.

Jesus is more.

He is the light of the world,

The lamp to our feet,

The guiding Son

To our indigo nights.

He is the love too great

For the grave to contain;

Grace too sweet

For our earthly tastebuds

To fathom.

He is more

Than we could imagine.

And less

Than the evil we give him credit for.

Jesus is everything our hearts could hope for.

( so what is it you hope for? )

what does it mean to be re-born (on Easter)

what does it mean to be re-born?

the stars don’t reveal their secrets,

so confounding us.

emblems bright

are birthed in darkness.

swirls of space dust

violently collapse inward,

shrouded by night, and

briefly

opaque,

before their outward glow.

what does it mean to be re-born?

birth so much resembles death.

nurseries are a violent place:

the swirl and

the collapse;

brilliance enveloped in black

and blood.

can one enter

again

their mother’s womb

a second time?

why would anyone want to?

what does it mean that life could come from death?

that particles once drifting

or static

could yet compose a new song;

that a heart once stone

and hardened

could yet be flesh once more?

from dust we came

and to dust,

we shall return

but not before the cosmic crash

when dark meets light

where divinity meets skin

when death is swallowed up by life—

two worlds brought close

from a chasm

we could could never cross.

(we were galaxies away)

yet as a voice calls to

the empty grave,

these words will not

empty

return.

they will bounce back,

ricochet off stardust;

echo across eternity.

they will dance their way

to hearts that have been thawing.

and dwell there.

those hearts will see the truth

and understand.

they will settle and startle and know—

that what had died

is alive again.

(and that we, too, can be re-born)

A Failure To See

I see you
Walking down a tightrope,
Gun to back.
You are smiling
but
I see
the beads of sweat
that gather at your collar
As the crowd roars.

I’m watching you
Watch your self worth
rise and fall
through another’s eyes.
Eyes that confuse
and misconstrue.
Eyes that can’t
See.

Look at me and answer honest:
Aren’t you tired?
Aren’t you anxious?
Aren’t you wishing they would just let up?
I bet if you fell,
If you gave up the game,
If you got tired enough
to let yourself fall—
You’d find arms to catch you.
You’d find Eyes that would look into yours
And finally
reflect back
Truth:

You are broken,
You are falling,
You are reaching for all the wrong things.

But the Arms that reach
for you
are sure
and steady.
They pull you close
And cover you.

You must be tired.
You must be anxious.
The sooner you accept your
humanity,
The sooner you can let God’s divinity
Embrace you.

Please fall.