rusted fairy tales and a journey close to home

I grew up playing in the woods. We lived on about 100 acres of land; my grandfather's farm took up about a third, our house and surrounding cow pastures another third, and then there was the back third, all woods and "swamp," as my dad called it. As children, we were only allowed to go so far by ourselves, but from time to time we would sneak past the "boundary line" and go exploring through the thickets, over creeks. Mostly though,we camped out in tree houses and forts built by human hands and the vast imagination of children,in which a rusted box spring becomes a gate and an old hubcap a shield.From time to time,my dad would take us out for a walk and we could go exploring without the fear of being missed. As I got older, I started taking these walks by myself, exploring not so much the land, but the inner sanctum of silence and reflection that the woods provided.

I do not have a single memory of every feeling lost while in these woods. I remember once my mom thinking we were lost and sending my grandfather out to find us, but we knew where we were the whole time (we were just hoping that she never would). It seemed like no matter how long you walked or how far you got away from home, there was always a familiar sight or sound to remind you that you were still home: a fence, a barn, the sound of my grandpa honking the horn on his truck to let the cows know it was time to come and eat. I think mostly this sense of security came from the knowledge that you could never go too far. The boundaries of our land were clearly defined, a road on three sides and a single barbed wire fence along the back. There was a sense of safety in these boundaries, knowing that as long as we were at home, no matter how deep in the darkness of the woods we were, no real harm could come to us, no matter how much adventure we managed to find.

There have been many times over the past few years when I have found myseld truly and utterly lost. Days when I woke up not knowing whether to expect blessings or disasters. Nights spent having to talk myself down from the ledge of a full on panic attack as I lay in bed, bombarded by the loss and pain that each day seemed to bring. Countless times I felt like I had set out down a path with complete certainty as to were it led, only to discover too far into the journey that it led to a place that I would never willingly go; other times, shortly before reaching my destination I would encounter an obstacle that could not be overcome, forcing me to turn around and go back the way I came. And then there were the days when fear just kept me glued to my front porch.

Having just lived through a really crappy week last week, I took some time this weekend to regroup and repurpose myself. Somehow, this led to me remembering those times I spent as a child safely lost in the wonders of my backyard and realizing that now, even through the worst, darkest days, I still carried with me that inner sense of safety, of peace. I realized that even now, when each day I'm faced with a bit of uncertainty, a bit of heartbreak, a bit of confusion, I don't feel completely lost because I know that there is a boundary to this life I'm living. It may extend to China, Cuba, Colorado, or some obscure former Soviet nation that even gets left off of a lot maps, but it's there nonetheless. It's the peace of knowing that no matter how far I wander, how lost I feel, I am never more that a breath away from God's hand. Even when I choose the wrong path and have to turn around, he's there as soon as I do.

As children playing on our farm, we knew that even if we didn't know the land, our dad did. There is security in that knowledge. A safety that lets your imagination run wild and gives you the freedom to play in a magical world where a little girl can become a queen and an old rusted chicken coop can become an impenetrable castle, complete with a golf club scepter and a little brother for a servant.