So there’s this little chapel on Washington Island in Door County. My husband and I took a trip there last November when the tourists had all gone, and the shops were mostly closed for the season, and yet the ferry was still making her daily runs between the mainland and here. We were the only ones, and there was this quiet, chilly, peace that settled over the both of us, and over the lake as we floated steadily across it, and the hum of the motor was heard low and deep instead of the voices of the summer now gone by. And we came to this chapel. And it seems so dark in the outside yet inside it is flooded with light and these crosses placed above seem to rise higher and higher towards the windows of Heaven and there is just something so beautiful…and so familiar…about this place of quiet worship. Our lives may seem dark for a season to the world as it watches us pass by. But there is no shame in a soul that is beaming with light and just biding its time before it manifests into the physical. There is a quiet welling up of Grace that takes the place of all that is not good within us. That Grace erases who we were, but holds on to the knowledge of where we came from. Our feet are rooted to this earth, to the place where forests run wild and creeks run free and pavement pounds hard on our hearts. But our souls are feather light with redemption, and our Christ has made all things new for us…our perspectives, our loves, our purpose. He is great and He is rising up and He’s taking us with Him. And this little chapel with her crosses rising high seems to get it…seems to know that up high is the place we belong and rooted here is where we will find the beginning of the Grace that will take us there. A wooden chapel and a wooden cross and us have this in common…we were placed in this world to lift Him up, and in His rising we rise too.
A Fellow Grace Wanderer