The Moments We Hold

It was late in the spring of 2019 when the sound of laughter bounced through the jack pine and balsam fir. The woods had life in them – my life – it was the laughter of my children. In their joy, I heard God’s goodness, a reminder that every breath is a gift to be cherished.

The experience was so intense; I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt a gentle nudge from within. “Shhh, hold this moment close, mama, treasure it.” Nostalgia hovered in the air as delicately as a soap bubble. My heart overflowed with gratitude as I watched our three adult children slip into unguarded play, chasing around the island. This was rare—my children, my husband, and I, all at rest and playing together for a few days. I knew that a season of life was ending fully aware that our children had grown.

This was a moment I wanted to hold.

The five of us on that remote island in Minnesota’s Boundary Waters, without technology or schedules, was a mother’s dream. We paddled and portaged with heavy backpacks until finding our campsite. (Okay, maybe not all mothers would dream of this setup, but it was our family held captive for a short while, and that’s what I’m getting at.) We set up camp quickly, then Jeff and I relaxed in hammocks while the kids explored. Everything felt perfect—like a slice of heaven.

The next morning, we all loaded the fishing gear into canoes and set out to catch dinner. The water was like polished glass, the air free of the hum of motors, voices, or devices. Only a deep stillness remained, dissolving the stress of daily life. We paddled steadily, passing small islands that looked alike. No signs marked our location, but we had a map to guide us to a “good fishing spot.” After a couple of hours of catching nothing, my daughter and I decided to head back to camp and relax in the hammocks. We tested our walkie-talkies, examined the paper map, and set out on our own. However, I began to feel a knot in my stomach as we continued paddling, and all the islands looked the same.

“Try the walkie-talkie,” I chirped as I turned toward my daughter. I don’t think she bought the fake confidence.

The walkie-talkies were silent, isolating us from any human contact in this remote part of Minnesota. The once-peaceful feeling of solitude lurched me into helplessness and fear. The night before, I had snuggled inside my sleeping bag in the tent, and even then, I was cold. How would we sleep outside on an island? Would anyone find us before morning?  

I no longer felt that slice of heaven I’d experienced the day before. Instead, it felt like it could quickly become a terrible day on earth.

This was a moment I did not want to hold.

As the afternoon went on, we talked and prayed, holding onto hope that our guys would somehow find us on their way back to camp. Finally, God sent a lone fisherman to show us the way. Feeling relieved, we gathered strength as we paddled on, spying our camp in the distance.

“Thank you, Jesus!” echoed across the waters as we gave thanks. We had made it back.

That night, instead of Walleye or Pike, we had canned tuna and ramen for dinner. And though our bodies were tired, our hearts were full because we were all together on the same island, sleeping in our sleeping bags and tents. No one was lost or left out in the cold.

Early the next morning, I woke to the sharp, clear sound of a trumpet cutting through the silence. Nothing else, just that one unmistakable note. A trumpet echoing in the empty wilderness could only mean one thing. 

Jesus had come for us !

I held my breath and waited…but the twinkling of an eye had passed. There was no parting of the sky, no flash of glorious light, and we hadn’t been taken up. I looked around. I was still in my tent, with my daughter sleeping beside me. Slightly amused at myself and a little disappointed, I slipped outside to check things out. Jeff was already awake, sitting by the small Jetboil and pouring coffee. 

“Did you hear the trumpeter swan?” he whispered.

“Oh, that’s what it was.” I grimaced

What did you think it was?

I smiled and replied, “Jesus.”

We chuckled as he poured me a cup, and I gazed at the tranquil lakes surrounding our private sanctuary, feeling the comforting warmth of the mug in my hands. Holding this moment was a slice of heaven once more.

That Boundary Waters trip was our last family vacation before our youngest went home to heaven. The nudge to savor it was God’s gift, one I still hold close. Until faith becomes sight, I wait with hope—listening for the trumpet and giving thanks for His care, His creation, and the joy of laughter through the generations.

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