Forgive Us Our Trespasses

There is one beach, among all the Lake Michigan beaches I know, that holds special spiritual sway with me.  So much that I have not visited there in nearly twenty years, for fear that it has changed.  It is the property that was once the church camp I went to as a kid, Pilgrim Haven near South Haven, Michigan.  Church camp was a special experience for me, a time of testing independence away from my family.  Not only independence in living apart from my parents for a week, but also spiritual independence from them and my church family.  It was a time to really stand on my own, being challenged by the camp counselors to think of myself as a spiritual individual; but in an environment of like minded people.  For a ten year old that is a pretty safe test, unlike the spiritual test of attending Michigan State University as an eighteen year old.  But that is a whole nother story.

Pilgrim Haven Camp was on Lake Michigan front property, extremely valuable real estate, a beautiful spot.  There were two rows of wooden cabins that ran perpendicular to the beach, set back slightly behind a row of trees on a low bluff. At night, when it had been stormy, we slept to the sound of waves crashing on the beach.  When it was foggy, we could hear the fog horn from the South Haven light house nearby.  Both were very comforting sounds, adding to the peace that was easy there.  Pilgrim Haven was a good name. 

It was not the first time I heard God’s voice, but so far it was the loudest.  At camp, part of the daily routine included evening Vespers, a worship service that wrapped up the events of the day.  Instead of doing this indoors in the main lodge, Vespers were held on a high bluff overlooking the lake, at sunset. We sat on benches made of wooden boards perched on logs, and faced the waterfront where there was a rugged wooden cross near the edge of the bluff.  This is where I learned to worship God in sacred outdoor spaces, seeing Him in the colors of the sky and the endless water that seemed to stretch on eternally.  God called His creation “good”, and here that truth was unmistakable.    

When I was a teenager in the ‘80s, the United Church of Christ closed the camp and sold the property.  At the time, it seemed like just another change associated with growing up.  My BFF/co-camper Ginger and I learned about it while at another church camp up North that summer.  Immediately I felt the loss and wanted to return.  A few years later, my husband and I went there while visiting his aunt who lived nearby.  It was the early ‘90s then and most of the buildings had been removed.  The high bluff was gone; it had been eroded away by the wave action during the period of high lakewater, when many cottages were lost to the lake all along the shoreline.  The property was overgrown a bit, but I could still easily make out all the former locations of the cabins, buildings, and play areas. 

The changes I saw were pointing toward inevitable development.  Sadly, much of the shoreline, particularly in Southern Michigan, is overdeveloped.  This has made me move Northward in my beach visits and has now pushed me all the way up to the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Shoreline, where the sacred space is preserved.  For years, thirty years now actually, I have assumed that my whole beloved Pilgrim Haven had become a condo development, closed off forever.  I couldn’t even look. 

This spring, I happened to Google the camp, looking for better pictures of the high bluff worship area.  I was shocked to find that the woman who bought the land held it undeveloped, and had recently donated it to be made into a park.  Amazing!  I emailed the organization to ask more about it; what’s happening now and when can I go?!  The answer was that it is still in process, and there are no-trespassing signs and fences currently while plans are made.  Hmm.  Immediately I knew that there would be no fences on the lakefront.  Michigan law has established public access to all beaches, up to the high water line.  And while I was there, maybe I could take a peek (or walk) inland.  Maybe.  Camp is an hour and a half away, in a direction I usually don’t travel.  Until this weekend. 

I was heading back from a business trip to Chicago Saturday near sunset.  As I got closer to the highway exit, I felt a pull or a call to go.  Sunset!  But could I find it again?  As the sun got closer to the horizon, I took the exit and drove around on memory and instinct, looking for the right spot.  Would I find and recognize it now, among all the expensive new houses?  The first road I followed to the lakeshore came out close, but not the right spot.  I stopped the car and got out anyway, and the sound filled my ears.  The lake was churning, large waves crashing crashing crashing on the beach.  For all the years I have been to beaches on Lake Michigan, this sound was unique.  I hadn’t heard it anywhere else the exact same way, the way I heard it while I slept in my cabin.  It was a greeting that made my heart leap, the Spirit inside me jumping with joy.  To the north, I could see the South Haven light house.  There it was!  I must be close.  Determined to do better, I hopped back in the car, and took off. 

As darkness was getting closer, and the sun moving toward the eternal line of the horizon, I zoomed through the neighborhoods.  Then I caught sight of the right street, turned the corner, and again caught full view of the lake down the road that ended above the beach.  Parking in the near darkness of deep twilight, opening the car door, the sound returned, but with it this time was the smell.  A mix of pine and other trees, a smell that brought back everything in my memory of this place. There was a line of tall trees along the road, with a fence and the expected No Trespassing signs.  I went quickly to the beach and, regrettably wearing high heels and a skirt, climbed down the slope. 

Home at last!  My soul rejoiced and connected to the place in an indescribable way.  As much as I love words, there were no words for this moment.  The water was deep blue with the clouds echoing the color, while the sky was reds and oranges, changing by the minute.  The waves rolled in, crashing with the sound of God’s voice again.  Saying the same thing He said when I was ten; welcoming me and inviting me to follow, like an outstretched hand.  How could I refuse? 

Turning back toward the land, I looked at my camp.  Should I go?  How could I possibly be trespassing when my soul owns a piece of this property?  This was certainly not a violation of the intention of the woman who protected and donated the land.  Climbing up and in, I followed a small trail made by other pilgrims, careful to not disturb the dune grass.  Once in past the trees, it was darker and cooler.  The spaces were still open in the same ways, but clearly haunted by the oldest trees and their memories.  I was only able to stay there a few minutes, this time, as it was getting pretty dark. 

I went back the way I had come, staying as long as light would allow on the beach, then climbed back up to the road.  As I sat in my car, with the door open, I dumped the sand out of my dress shoes onto the pavement.  Any day where I have to clean beach sand off my feet before driving is a good day.  And God said it was Good. 

Rocks

I have a rock collection.  It is made up of the smooth beach rocks I have picked up over the years on the shores of Lake Michigan.  Every time I am there praying, I walk and pick up a rock as a reminder of that prayer and of my connection to God.  The rocks are in my car, in all of my purses, stacked in my bathroom, and stacked on my desk at work.  They line window ledges in my house and serve as small mementos to rub and hold until they are polished by my hands.  Or there are the larger ones that are palm sized; they are a grounding tool.  Their cool solidity serves as a reminder of what is real when things get unreal.  Different locations on the shore contain different shaped rocks, produced by the unique wave action and water conditions present.  The rocks are all rounded by tumbling in the sand below the water; some are perfectly round and they have varying degrees of flatness.  Some are so flat they would be perfect skipping stones if I could truly let go of them and send them off across the water. But I hang onto my prayers.  

The Lake Michigan shoreline is a sacred space for me, and has been since I was a kid at church camp, worshipping outdoors on a bluff overlooking the Big Lake.  Seeing water with no land on the other side, the endless possibilities, stirs the imagination and suggests the Infinite.  So, that’s where I go to meet God.  Never fails, He’s always there, and I’m always praying. 

The lake always speaks differently, sometimes the waves are gentle and quiet, other times crashing.  The color of the water is magical, changing from one visit to the next.  I always come away from time at the shore with a renewed mind, having listened to the eternal rhythm of God found in all that is natural.  I try to teach my children to listen too.  On a hike through a state park this summer, we stopped to listen to the gentle sounds of a small stream, moving over rocks.  I asked them what the stream was saying.  Listening carefully, we thought it was saying, “stop and rest, peace.”  Later I asked them "If a stream can say that, what does Lake Michigan say?"  My daughter immediately answered, “Something Bigger.”

This connection has drawn me to the shore more and more in the last few years.  So much so that I began to volunteer with a nonprofit group that supports the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in Northern Michigan.  Now I have a wonderful excuse to drive the three plus hours there year round, allowing God to work on me through all of the seasons and see His good work even in the winter, when beach solitude reigns.  This quest has also drawn me to visit the wilderness of the Manitou islands of the Park, about twelve miles off the mainland.  The water there is crystal clear, and near the shore it reflects off the sandy bottom of the lake like a swimming pool.  Lake Michigan beaches to the south don’t have this clarity; it only intensifies the mystical effect. 

This year, in the midst of extraordinary personal struggles, I traveled again to the North Manitou Island, this time with my group, Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear.  We continued a multi year restoration project on a historic cottage, and the companionship and physical labor was healing and soothing.  In my free moments, I spent time alone with God, either on the trails through the deep old forests or on the shoreline.  With the rocks, both physical and prayerful, I watched the sunrise every morning. 

Where I live in Michigan, with Lake Michigan to the West, the sun always sets over the lake, dropping brilliantly into the line where the water meets the sky.  This time, on this trip, from the Manitou Island looking in the other direction, the sun rose over Lake Michigan, a surreal sight on any day.  Although I could still clearly see the mainland to the East, the sun came up far enough to the Northeast that it was rising out of the water.  Sunrise is the beginning of the day, and since God’s mercies are new every morning, I love being there when the mercy bank is reset for me.  Lord knows I need it.

So on the first morning as I waited in the twilight on a sandy bank right near the water, I was sitting in the cool sand, as yet to be heated by the sun, among the rocks.  The waves lapped gently on the shore, repeating a phrase that can only be heard when listening mindfully.  I prayed for God to take care of me and my family, to show me His direction, to help me face my problems.  Would He?  Silence.  As the sun broke over the watery smooth horizon, and the glory of the Lord shown fully, it was clear that the prayer, the questions, were wrong.  God is so good, so holy, so beautiful; it is impossible for Him not to take care of me.  It would be impossible for me to fall away from or beyond His care.  The response was so much larger and fuller than the question, completely eclipsing it.  As I looked around me, at the rocks covering the sandy beach and slope where I sat, they were no longer the prayers, they became the answers.  They became Something Bigger.  After the trip, as I return home to my world with the rocks in all the rooms of my house, my car, my desk – I am surrounded by God's answers, and I always have been.