The first time we spent a long weekend at Lake Chateaugay, Cal was an infant, Lee was three, and college was still fresh in my memory.
We were invited for a long weekend, as sort of a mini- college reunion. Jenne’s dad had just bought a lake house, and there was room enough for all of us, if we didn’t mind air mattresses and sleeping bags on the floor. We didn’t.
We knew the backstory of this house before we went, but we weren’t prepared for the reality of it. Half of it was a pretty standard sort of lakeside cabin; fireplaces and rocking chairs, a screened in porch, a bunch of mid-sized upstairs bedrooms. But the other half was a different story.
The property had been previously used as a research facility. So half of the house was covered in linoleum and countertops circa 1982. It was full of beakers and burners and sinks. There was an incubator and an actual darkroom with a revolving door. There were hallways full of cabinetry and the further you walked, the more you felt like you were in a science lab instead of a vacation home.
That first year, we had the biggest family, so we got the biggest room. And the biggest room happened to be an old lab. The floor was linoleum and the walls were covered in old wood paneling, cabinetry, and faucets. We set up three air mattresses and a pack n’ play in a space with one tiny window, and we loved every minute of it.
We’ve been up to the lake house almost every year since. After the first few visits, Jack began making the trek each spring, for opening weekend with the guys. He brought with him his muscle and his work ethic and his plumbing skills, and Jenne’s parents grew to love him.
The first few years, we visited with four or five different families. We started with five kids between us, and over the years, the number of children worked its way into the teens. It got harder and harder to coordinate these visits, and as the group visits dwindled, Jack’s labor earned us a weekend of our own.
This year, we went up for a four-day weekend, and during our time there, I couldn’t help but reflect. The house has transformed along with our family. The big room we stayed in our first year is now the master bedroom. It has bay windows and carpeting and the scientific paraphernalia is long gone. The dark room is a laundry room, and the incubators have been replaced with bunk beds and a pool table. The old pontoon has been replaced with a bigger, better boat. Other new additions include a deck, a lean-to, a kayak, and a dishwasher. The screened in porch is now a finished room, with an outside wall of windows and the most spectacular view you can imagine.
And as those changes took place, our family has evolved, too.
We were at the lake the year after Cal was born, with diapers and high chairs and sippy cups.
All four kids fondly remember summer days boating and catching frogs and fishing and swimming.
We were there for the first vacation without all four, when the boys had their own summer jobs and didn’t join us.
Our amazing friends tolerated the awkwardness and supported us there the summer we thought we were getting divorced. We sat by the water as we grappled with the reality of making a marriage work when the times got tough.
It was at the lake where Jack met a needy, lovey, sweet, massive black lab who melted our hearts and happened to need a home. She’s now a beloved member of the family.
We found ourselves at the lake again, just a few weeks after our family grew from four children to five. Bea had only lived with us for a short time, and we brought her on vacation, where we struggled to find a balance between welcoming her and setting limits.
And this year, we found a new sort of balance, boating and kayaking and roasting marshmallows in a space that now feels sacred.
It’s hard to explain the connection I have to this place that isn’t mine. I don’t feel I have the right to love it like I do. But I love it, nonetheless. For better or for worse, this house has become part of our story; part of our history.
And intertwined with all of this is the knowledge that it does not belong to me. Some day, circumstances will undoubtedly change, and all that I will have of this place is the memories we have created here. It’s sobering and saddening and beautiful in a bittersweet sort of way. The fleeting nature of our relationship with this house is part of what makes it so special.
The brutal, beautiful, inevitable march of time changes all things. I know I need to savor the moments we have in this place, and I realize the same is true for this beautiful family we’ve created.
Because after all, none of it really belongs to us. These children won’t be children forever. They are ours to hold for a finite number of years; a few moments in the course of time when we are entrusted to teach them and love them and help them become all that they are meant to be. We are compelled to enjoy them while we can, and let them go when we must.
I can’t spend too much time thinking about that moment of letting go; it brings a dreadful, paralyzing fear that I’m not ready to face. My heart breaks a little when I think of these beautiful days fading into my past.
But a fear of letting go can be extinguished by hope for the future. I dreaded seeing my babies turn into big kids… but I adore the big kids they’ve become. I feared moving on to a new house, until it became home. I have been afraid of the future innumerable times in the past, just before I moved into something bigger and more amazing than I could have imagined.
So instead of fear, I’m choosing to live in this moment with faith and hope.
This post was pulling at my mind and my heart as I fell asleep next to my husband in one of those upstairs bedrooms overlooking the lake. I woke up to his nudge and a whisper in my ear. “Wake up,” he said. “Why?” I groggily asked.
“The sun is rising. And we should see more sunrises together.”
My heart smiled. We slipped on our sweatshirts and walked into the misty morning with steaming mugs of coffee. We sat and watched a new beginning, holding on to this moment, and to each other.
So here’s to sunrises and beginnings and beautiful, fleeting moments of joy.
