On my way home from working at the Little League World Series in South Williamsport, Pa., I decided to do something that I’ve dreamed about for many years.
I would visit the lake.
There’s a lake just west of Youngstown, Ohio, that’s been special to me since I was about seven years old. It’s called Lake Milton. I don’t know the story behind how it got its name. But I can share my story of why it’s special.
Some of my friends know that my dad was an alcoholic. He didn’t drink every day, but when he did, he couldn’t stop. And he’d get loud and angry and abusive toward my mom. It was awful and frightening. I remember listening to the arguments and shaking uncontrollably. This went on for several years.
Fortunately, my dad eventually recognized he needed help and joined Alcoholics Anonymous. His sponsor was a funny, kind man named John. He became part of the family — we called him Uncle John. He and his wife, Fran, owned a cottage by Lake Milton. They encouraged us to use it for a week each summer.
We had great times there. We’d get away from the city lights and see the sky dotted with so many stars that it took our breath away. We’d race across the lake in inner tubes until the insides of our arms were raw. Play Wiffleball in the backyard. Take the metal boat out on the lake and go fishing. Play jarts (yeah, that was back when kids were allowed to have sharp-tipped toys).
In some important ways, those times saved and redeemed me. Playing in the water together showed me that family can have fun together — that it’s possible to be family. I looked forward to returning to that place every summer. The lake was a God-filled place when I really needed one.
Over the years, the lake has shown up in my dreams many times. I've often thought, “I need to go back someday.”
More than 30 years passed. Eventually, I added it to my bucket list: Go back to the lake.
And here it was, as I drove home last week. The Interstate took me right across it. I pulled off at the exit, turned right, and drove down a narrow, two-lane road, feeling like I was back in my family’s fire engine red station wagon loaded with a week’s worth of clothes for my parents and siblings and me.
I found the cottage, which is now a bit rundown. The backyard where we played Wiffleball seemed small and overgrown — you couldn’t have a game there now.
No matter.
I went the final two blocks to the place where we had our boat dock — the place where we swam and fished and raced with inner tubes — and pulled off the road. I got goosebumps. It was all still there, and it hadn’t changed much.
The pier I fell off while fishing? There. The grassy beach? There. Even the wooden stairs that led down the hill to the beach — the ones my mom always used, while we boys sprinted down — those stairs were weathered, but still there.
And the lake? Even more beautiful than I remembered it.
I quickly took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my pants legs and waded in. I stood there and smiled and watched the seagulls fly overhead and the boats churn up little waves as they went by. I felt like I was being baptized in the real sense of the word. Reminded how amazing it is just to be part of something so beautiful. Reminded that you’re loved and that everything is going to be all right, no matter how it turns out.
That God-filled moment soaked in like the waves soaking my pants legs.
I have a friend who tells about going to a park that felt God-like and helped her settle the chaos in her head and find peace for a while. I like to think that we all have our God-filled places and spaces. They’re different for everyone. And they go beyond lakes and park benches.
One of my biggest ongoing challenges has been to see relationships as God-filled places. To look into another person’s eyes, see love and grace, and summon the courage to take off my shoes and socks and wade in. To leave the beach, and leave behind my fear of sinking and drowning. To create a sacred space.
In a sense, when we put ourselves into loving relationships, we’re digging a deep space. And God comes along and fills it with rainwater. And soon there are birds flying overhead and docks dotting the shore.
Together, we become a God-filled place. A place oh, so beautiful, that it takes our breath away.
Joe Kay is the associate minister at Nexus United Church of Christ, Butler County, Ohio. He also writes a weekly blog at https://joekay617.wordpress.com. His email address is listed on the blog, in case you care to contact him directly.
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