Memoir: Our Sanctuary

I was young, perhaps two?, when my family “discovered” House Rock Forest Camp, a campground nestled in by a sleepy river where we could wade, swim, boat, jump in, throw rocks, and then fall asleep listening to the gurgle of the water. It was our second family home each summer and we would pack enough food for ten days or so into cars and pickups and drive the steep mountain highway for about an hour until we reached the turn-off.

When I was old enough to remember, I could barely sit still from excitement, waiting with each turn on Highway 20 to see if this was “the turn,” the bend in the road that held the sign, House Rock, 1 mile. We would carpool with my grandmother or with family friends, all of us ready to feel the decrease in the hot summer air the higher up we got in the mountains, peering nervously over the edge of the guardrail as our cars would speed past to see how much water was in the river from the winter runoff. Each year it seemed the water was more and more shallow as the laws prohibiting logging increased and water was redirected elsewhere by nature’s heating and cooling mechanisms.

When I was eight, I think, our family and friends took off for a hiking trip and got lost in the woods high above the waterfalls. I was timid, afraid of heights, afraid of the unknown, afraid of whatever characters lived in those woods. I wasn’t afraid of animals, but of creatures that appeared in my dreams, unearthly beings that were perhaps something akin to ghosts. They were so very real to me then–my vivid imagination still isn’t quite tamed.

The animals were just a nuisance. Raccoons and squirrels who would make tracks through camp, checking our food containers for access. Once when we left the lid off a Tupperware container of brownies, little bits of “extra brownie” appeared the next day in the bottom. My mother was horrified. I remember thinking the squirrels and raccoons were so happy with their feast that they had relaxed a bit too much while eating it.

My solace during those years was not only the water and the trees and the fresh mountain air, but the rocks. House Rock had been aptly named: rocks the size of houses directed rushing water down toward our campsite. Another house-sized boulder provided a cool shelter for skunks and bats. I thought it was a house for a long time, until I realized no one human actually lived in it. We would climb these massive rocks to peer down into deep swimming holes or to watch up close the thundering falls. We’d stand with both hands on a giant rock in the shallow end of the once massive “above the falls swimming hole” watching our dad jump with a whoop from the cliff side into a deep pool. Rocks would appear on the beach each year; rocks I had never seen before. I would sit for hours sorting rocks on this beach, or float face down on a yellow inflatable rubber boat, my hands treading the water and reaching down to grab each of them in their colorful glory. Water made the rocks come alive. It was like a watery artist’s canvas. I had to have as many as I could hold.

And yet, each year, the makeup of our beach and the route of the river changed. Once we went in winter, hiking our way down through deep snow into the campground, standing on the edge in awe as we watched thick, swirling water move these rocks to new places in the campground. A flood when I was a teenager actually unmoored the giant wooden bridge over the river, flipping it upside down. I remember not caring about slivers, but being slightly terrified (and happy as a clam) as we slid up and down that upside-down bridge over and over to hike and play and wander. Another flood in 1996 almost destroyed the campground completely, the water splintering the concrete-held picnic tables and depositing massive amounts of silt where tents were pitched.

Water moves rocks. I am fascinated by it. I can’t stop going where rocks and water meet (even in Europe, I was picking up rocks from the beaches of Corfu, Italy, and Montenegro). I can’t stop collecting rocks by the pound (I brought home half the beach from the San Juan Islands last spring, and my husband will attest to that under oath).

I have friends who love trees, love the ocean. I love rocks (and the ocean and trees). But rocks are my thing. My sanctuary.

What physical thing for you reminds you of God’s presence or sanctuary?

Today’s song is Sanctuary by Chris Rodriguez from the Streams album.

Seems I left the innocence of Eden long ago
Tempted by my heart
To go it on my own
Beyond the garden
Somehow through the desert of my wanderings alone
You have never let me go

I turn from You
And still you cover me
I fall so far
You find me in the deep
Anywhere I am
Anywhere I am
You sanctuary me

I have felt the separation deep within my bones
Brought me to my knees
Crying out for hope
Beyond the garden
Somehow through my tears
You heard the words I could not speak
You were there to rescue me

I turn from You
And still you cover me
I fall so far
You find me in the deep
Anywhere I am
Anywhere I am
You sanctuary me

I turn from you
And still you cover me
I fall so far
You find me in the deep
I lose my way
You’re reaching out to me
Anywhere I go
Anywhere I am
Anywhere I am
You sanctuary me

Tagged as: brilliant, finding common ground, memoir