I’m sitting in my basement office while a hurricane of crepe paper and balloons gathers upstairs.
Earlier today, I picked up three of my grandkids from school and told them I had a “meeting.” They were instructed to help Grandma with “something.” We would have snacks after my meeting.
Based on the thundering overhead, it sounds less like three children and more like thirty.
Tomorrow I turn sixty-eight.
Upstairs, Carmen is trying — with all her heart — to surprise me.
It’s hard to surprise a man who signs for the deliveries, helps buy the party supplies, and manages the calendar. But that was never really the point. The point is the trying. The love poured into effort. The desire to make a moment sacred, even when logistics refuse to cooperate.
This weekend will hold laughter. It will likely hold tears. That, too, is our life. Joy and fragility inhabiting the same room.
— — — — — — — — — — —
And then she gave me the gifts.
Two bracelets — one that reminded her of the woman who watches over us. One tied to the country where my ancestors first learned to endure wind and water.
And then a compass.
A silver compass pendant on a simple chain.
Engraved not with a message, but with a place — the one we’ve chosen as our final camp beside the river.
When she told me what she had engraved, we both cried.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just the quiet kind of tears that come when something true is spoken aloud.
Belonging.
Years ago, Carmen gave me a replica of William Clark’s compass. And a sextant. They sit upstairs now — steady and still — reminders that direction matters.
But once, we stood before Clark’s actual compass. Not a replica. His.
I imagined him under a hard sky, wind pressing against his coat, taking a reading and sketching a line with cold fingers. Beside me, Carmen had gone perfectly still — but not for the compass. She was studying a case of pressed flowers from the journey, the captains’ careful notes beside them. She traced the names as if reading a poem.
Native plants have always been her doorway.
Something shifted that day. She wasn’t simply accompanying me on an adventure anymore. She was inside the story.
Clark’s compass pointed west into conjectural territory.
This one does not.
This one points home.
When we first met, I wore a dream catcher around my neck. I even marked it on my skin. Back then, I was searching. I didn’t have language for it. I only knew there was something I hoped to find.
She was — and is — my dream.
And somehow, I caught it.
Now I wear a compass.
Not because I’m lost.
But because I know where we will one day lay down our packs.
— — — — — — — — — — —
A few minutes ago, my phone buzzed.
“Your meeting is over,” she wrote.
I climbed the stairs and was met by two grandkids nearly vibrating with excitement. They were far more animated about the surprise than I was.
Crepe paper hung crookedly. Balloons leaned against door frames. The house was louder than it needed to be.
And somehow, it felt hallowed.
The compass rests quietly at my throat.
The house is full.
I am exactly where I am meant to be.
I couldn’t tell you my earliest memory of hearing church bells. I can only tell you, as the son of a preacher, my guess is I’ve heard church bells most of my life. Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, I remember hearing the bells tolling every hour on the hour…and at noon, they would play a short song, er uh, hymn. There is something about playing outside on a warm summer day with bright blue skies and hearing the bells reverberate through town. It’s kind of like baseball and apple pie. 
One of the things both my parents loved to do in their later years at Green Lake was to explore the Amish communities south of the lake. Carmen and I had explored these areas many times during our visits with them. Brad, now 37, had never had the experience. I was excited when he decided to join us on the trek. We would honor my parents by visiting the Amish Pleasant View Bakery and indulging in fresh, warm cinnamon rolls as big as your head; shopping at Mishler’s Country Store; and, stocking up on enough cheese for a year at the Kingston Creamery. Gene and Mary Ellen would have been proud! 
and walked to Memory Lane. We wandered along the walkway through the plaques and memorials to Baptist leaders of the last half-century or more. Pergolas offer shade and benches for reflection. They too are covered with plaques. Without speaking we each in turn separated ourselves from the others to be alone with our thoughts. We discovered and re-discovered a plaque to mom, a plaque to both mom and dad, a plaque to dad, finally stopping at the last pergola. 
This was the place. On the pergola was a plaque honoring my grandmother and grandfather, my mother’s parents. This was where we had gathered seven years ago. My dad, siblings, my aunt, and some friends. This was where we each said our goodbyes to mom as we scattered her to the wind and the water. Of all the life moments I have documented in this blog, I don’t think I have ever written about that day. As I think of that day now, that will be a story I need to write. What is important for our story today is what dad used that day. 
yellow measuring cup to scoop him up and scatter him to the wind and water. To these, we added a chalice to share in communion. For years, our family would pass the cup to mark significant moments in our lives…a marriage…a birth. Forty years ago, we passed the cup surrounding mom’s hospital bed as she lay near death from a devastating fire. 
As I gazed down the bank, I noticed some of his ashes had filtered through the shrubbery on the bank and landed in the water. As the waves were rolling into the bank, the ashes were dispersing on the surface. It looked like wisps of smoke as the tendrils of ash spread. I snapped a picture with my phone. 
Once we completed our goodbyes, we quietly walked back to the car. (I cannot confirm nor deny that we saved a scoop to scatter at the 8th hole tee box on the Links course at Lawsonia). The three of us then spent time exploring the grounds, sharing stories, climbing Judson Tower, sharing stories, walking the lakeshore, and, yes, sharing stories. We left the grounds not knowing when or if any of us would return. 
Larry soon arrived, followed shortly thereafter by Duane and June. Let the reunion commence! Larry has been researching the history of the area, the Tons, and the Underground Railroad for years. He has written numerous articles and books on the subject. We stood near the monument while he shared the history with us. He believes between four and five hundred Freedom Seekers passed through this area on their way to Canada. “They had to leave the land of the free, to become free”, he stated. 
