Beyond Place

Home and its definition have been increasingly more difficult to decipher in the wake of a decade of collecting addresses. Since moving away from Chicago to attend college, my husband and I have lived in a dozen places, two of them as expats. “Where is home?” is now more clearly defined by what it is not than what it is.

Home isn’t the houses we grew up in; both of our parents have moved from those addresses.  We can’t claim Washington, D.C., Morristown, New Jersey, Atlanta, Georgia, Toronto, Ont., or Auckland, New Zealand with any certainty either. Pieces of our hearts may be there still, but none of the roots planted were allowed to deeply flourish. Charlotte, North Carolina, felt most like home; it’s where we were most settled and where we found friends that became like family, and brought our first baby home from the hospital.

We’ve sailed through both placid and tumultuous waters in our moves around the world, and have discovered beautiful places. Throughout it all, we are – thankfully – anchored to a little lake in Northern Michigan that my husband’s family has been enjoying for four generations. Little Traverse Lake is a tiny teardrop on the map only a mile from Lake Michigan, delightfully hidden just off the picturesque M22. 

It’s easy to see God in our surroundings. In winter, white clouds dissolve into stark snow banks along the frozen lake; it’s so still you can feel the quiet of a sleeping earth. In the summer, brilliant blue skies give way to cotton candy sunsets; the vibrant beauty is the backdrop to a buffet of outdoor activities and lively family gatherings.  

Ten years ago, our journey to the lake required 24 hours of travel. As newly married expats living in New Zealand, we took our once yearly vacation to Northern Michigan. With teary patriotic eyes, I celebrated as the Fourth of July fireworks set the sky ablaze above this lake. Living abroad both spreads your wings and binds you closer to your home country. It gives you perspective and fortitude while also making you face your identity in a new way; when you’re immersed in a new culture, you suddenly become hyperaware of your own. The idea of home also becomes relative; pieces of you begin to belong where they didn’t before. I’ve become genuinely endeared to other countries but more nostalgic than ever about our own traditions, both as Americans and as a family.

I married into a family steeped with traditions, many of which are connected to this lake. Generations of my husband’s family have been spellbound looking at this same sky. Bringing my sons here welcomes yet another generation to relish this hidden gem. It provides my husband and his family such great joy to see the traditions continue. What surprises me most, as I peer over the lake when I visit today, is how much joy it brings me too. 

On my first visit, I wasn’t sure this place would ever feel personal to me. Nestled amid a national forest with soft sandy banks that invite bare feet, it’s easy to see why this little lake is a place of refuge for those who visit. But, at first, I felt foreign among the family relics that decorate the patina-collecting walls and the memories that permeate even the pots in the kitchen. Hazy summers of endless lake frolicking, water skiing into the evening and perpetual wind assessment for sailing were deeply engrained into the pattern of life. I lacked the years of memories that everyone else shared. There is a reverence for time spent here that holds such a special place in my husband’s heart, I was unsure if there was space for me in it too.  

Yet I’ll never forget the first time I watched a brush-stroke sunset from the banks of the lake as my husband gently slipped his arms around my waist and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here.”  The look in his eyes relayed the unspeakable happiness this place brings him and how joyfully he was sharing it with me. That moment shifted the idea of the lake being a special place for his family, to also being a special place for us. That moment also defines our relationship and our faith: when we found each other, we found home. We have since traveled around the world, but the feeling remains the same: as he slips his arms around me, I am home.

And we’ll always have this lake. My sons’ eyes mirror the look I saw in their father’s so many years ago; I realize the significance of this place is now woven into a new family history, a history that we are forging together. This lake provides a moment of solace and peace amid our buoyant adventures. It is the anchor in our transient life.