Life at the End of the Road

We’ve hit a dead end. All of us. It’ll be disorienting for a while, but I believe we can, and must, learn to live well at the end of the road.

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This was an actual surprise dead-end we found trying to get our drive-thru shamrock shakes back to the family.

It is likely your end-of-the-road is not exactly like our family’s new and literal end-of-the-road home, but I know we are all sitting in a similar place right now.  An unexpected end has happened for all of us in one way or another. I am admittedly unsure how the road will open up again, but I am confident of one thing: Hope IS on the other side.

Our family of five is huddled in our newly-almost-fully-renovated-three-and-a-half-bedroom-one-bathroom lake house at the end of a road. Rough, I know. Our twenty-year-old is home from college for the semester and our high schooler has resigned herself to the real possibility she’ll spend the rest of her senior year at the end of this road. The eighth-grader thought she’d have this place pretty much to herself, but that is not the case for the foreseeable future. Not much of our move here has gone how I sensed it should, but in the strangest sense of all, it feels like exactly where we are supposed to be.

What if that is the truth for everyone? What if your hard stop is intended for difficult reflection, a reset of priorities, a shift in perspective you never considered you’d need to do?

People tend to fear endings so much, but the more I let myself look at them, the more I believe we are meant to live as fully in our endings as in any other part of our lives. Bring faith to all of it: beginning, middle, and dead/ final ends.

Over a decade ago, I had a premonition I would meet my end at this lake house.

The first night we stayed in our then-run-down little cabin, my husband went out to buy supplies. I had tucked our three small kids into bed and as I stood waiting at the window for him to return, I became awash with fear. I felt so uneasy in the unfamiliar, dimly-lit kitchen and I was overwhelmed by the thought of one thing: mortality. It was a feeling more than it was a word. I thought, “he’s not coming back tonight.” I was sure of it. The nervous energy ushered in an almost paralyzing fear. I was compelled by this feeling enough to write myself a letter to make record. He did come back and I quickly pivoted the admission that the feeling of mortality probably applied to me. It was like the certainty I felt after my husband kissed me goodnight and I knew we’d be married. I simply knew ends at this lake house would happen.

I still believe in that truth. Maybe the COVID-19 world shift is the end I sensed or maybe I’ll meet my actual end here, but no matter what, I’m not afraid of it like I used to be. You’d think knowing what I do about this place, I would try harder to avoid it. That’s what I would do if I wanted fear to carry me. Faith-filled choices carry us too, and without resistance sometimes that means we head right back to face the fears we spend most of our lives avoiding.

The crazy thing is, simultaneous to the thoughts of endings at this lake house,  my husband and I have followed a compulsion to live here and pursue plans to build The Park. Each day we wake up, we’ll continue to work toward that. I do sense, in these crazy times, I should be doing something else too.  The Park, like this house, sits at the end of a road. (sorta think that’s not a coincidence) I feel a new calling to photograph and blog about how we attempt to live life fully while we wait at the #endoftheroad.  I’ll post those photos and musings on my Instagram and Facebook pages.

soft white grass

For those of you wrangling with the difficulties you have today and the anticipated discomfort yet to come, I am sincerely sorry you have landed where you never intended to travel. I do believe the end of the road is not to be feared, however, and instead sits waiting in invitation to remind us that hope, faith and love are real things that deserve our attention in beginnings, middles and endings.

When all else fails, look to the children. Shel Silverstein was one of my favorite poets as a kid. This morning as I walked and photographed the space of our property at the end of the road, inspired by a photographer who posts pictures regularly from somewhere on his eighty acres, I thought about Silverstein’s poem Where the Sidewalk Ends. Without knowing why I loved it as a kid, rereading it today reminded me that I loved it because he highlights the hope that exists because of children. They are a hope we can look to as we wait at the end of the road for the other hope we know is coming.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes, we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Meagan Frank

Copyright 2020

It’s a Calling. It’s a Dream. It’s a Park!

WoodWind Park

Hubby and I are pretty quiet people with loud, preposterous dreams.

Since 2001 we have actively sought purpose. Much of that time has been spent throwing out ridiculous ideas over coffee or while laying awake in bed. Sometimes we would stop in the middle of the trail we had been walking because an awesome idea had arrived.

“Let’s build a free sports center.”

“Let’s renovate an old movie theatre and turn it into a music venue.”

“Let’s buy that old creamery and use one part for a bar and grill and the other part for a formal dining room.”

“Let’s sell t-shirts with a character doing fun active things. Let’s call him Pudgie.”

“Let’s make fried ice cream in every flavor imaginable.”

“Let’s find a way to bring people together for events and ideas.”

My journals have recorded this messy pursuit. I wrote down whisperings and nudgings that got louder and louder for us over the past ten years. What I realize is that every curiosity, every misstep, every miscalculation was a flat-out answer to prayers.

What felt like simply fun and interesting conversations was a calling neither of us realized we were contemplating answering. I kid you not, these “visions” were so strong for me that I literally wrote an entire draft of a novel about this magical place that houses eternity and some of the elements of what I wrote about three years ago are actually starting to be real-life things.

Hubby and I realize we were meant to buy an abandoned ski hill and turn it into something amazing. To foster a place where activity can be offered for practically nothing, where music can be enjoyed in big and small ways, where informal and formal dining can co-exist, where apparel highlighting the antics of our cartoon Pudgie is actually possible, where fried ice cream has a place to be created and where events and ideas will be endless.

For this imagined thing to come to life, we will be selling our house, downsizing to our cabin on the lake that is less than twenty minutes from our new project, changing the nature of the jobs we have and working like crazy for the next couple years to get the doors open and the outside welcoming.

The progress and setbacks are being chronicled on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter and we are grateful for the support and prayers we are receiving from all corners of the world.

Copyright Meagan Frank 2019