Indescribable

About 3 weeks ago, we stepped onto a houseboat and had a week-long adventure that I still haven't been able to fully describe. Maybe to some, it's commonplace. To me? A first. Possibly a last. This place we were was new to me in every way. Every single experience was new, from the breathtakingly terrible beauty of the drive there to every single thing about life on the water. We lived on the water, absolutely swallowed in heat and light and beauty. We were dwarfed by the immensity of the rock formations, the sun, the stars, the water. We woke early in a blaze of unrelenting light. We fell asleep to the sound of water, and if the weather permitted outdoor sleeping, a thick black starry sky almost too near for comfort. There were other boats, but not many. Mostly, it was 9 of us, floating on a vast expanse of startlingly blue or turquoise water, depending on the time of day and the weather. The water under us was anywhere from 6 feet to 400 feet deep. The sky over us was unending.

I find myself now rejoicing in the trip of a lifetime and grieving that it's over. I started looking at pictures today and ended up in tears.

So much has happened to me and in me in the past couple of years. So much that is new. So much unwelcome or painful or scary. So much that has changed me forever and left me wondering how to go from here. Lake Powell was something else utterly new, but despite some scary moments, it wasn't unwelcome. We did have adventure beyond what any of the 9 of us anticipated (or wanted in some cases). The weather was difficult the first couple of days and there was tension and fear. We lost two anchors. Literally. They sank. The wind was fierce. We saw waterspouts forming. We slept poorly, expecting every movement of the boat in the wind to send us back into crisis mode. Then? The wind died down. It was gone. The adventure continued, but without the tension of the first two and a half days. We played all day. Seriously. All day. Boating. Tubing. Swimming. Exploring. We wore lots of sunscreen. We slept hard. Ate a lot.

I was somewhat interrupted by a case of dehydration, but was able to rehydrate and enjoy myself. Everyone else stayed healthy, aside from minor bumps and bruises and scrapes and one very sore toe.

Elijah fell between the houseboat and the speedboat, but was able to swim out without injury. For me, the only one who saw him fall, it is one of the most frightening moments I've ever had in parenting. I've lost a daughter. There's no rule that says my other two kids are safe. I heard a scream that came from me and I've never heard that sound before. In that split second, it was as if my heart was preparing to lose him. I didn't. To everyone else, it is just a story, but to me--it was different. It was me wondering out loud if I could survive the loss of another child.

We never did have a "normal" day, but I felt like I was fully alive out there in that harshly beautiful and heartbreakingly lovely place. So often, I'm swept into daily life and I don't feel alive. I am going through the motions. There, I was alive. Oh what a foretaste of glory divine....to be fully alive.

In the end, this trip was indescribable. I can't make you understand or experience it with words or pictures. I can't translate the full intensity of the color. It was a trip God gave to the 9 of us. We each saw Him. He was working in each of us. Showing Himself to us. Asking us questions, some difficult. He was dazzling us, caring for us, drawing us toward each other, giving us space from the everyday. He was pouring on some life. For me, he put some color in the shadows that have seemed to be so near.