There’s a house my parents own that sits quietly by the lake. Nobody lives in it, it’s not a home in the traditional sense– no daily routines, no permanent furniture arrangements, no worn out spots on the carpet. It’s more of a holding place for memories in waiting. It stores the boat, jet skis, kayaks, the lily pad, etc. It holds the promise of summer and the laughter of weekend fires. It’s always there, always available, a space open to whoever wants to use it– family, friends, friends of friends. A come as you are kind of place. 

Yesterday, I went alone. I needed the quiet. The still. The absence. Sometimes silence feels like oxygen when life gets too loud. I grabbed the kayak, paddled out to the center of the lake, and just drifted. Not a boat in sight and the water flat, it was so still. I let the current and the wind take over and opened my bible, ready to hear from the only One who can actually quiet my soul. 

But then– I heard them. 

Jet skis, buzzing and skipping across the surface like a thousand bees coming in for landing. I didn’t even have to look. I knew exactly who it was. 

My brother. And his crew.

And my first reaction? Honestly? Annoyed. 

Of all the places. Of all the directions they could’ve gone. Of all the square footage of our town and this wide open lake– they somehow found me. Floating in the middle of nowhere, trying to have a moment with God, and now I’ve got engines roaring, waves crashing into my kayak, and droplets of water spraying at me. I felt like I’d been invaded. 

And then– almost as fast as the annoyance came– it also broke. 

What are the odds that I would be found in the middle of the lake? 

What are the odds that I would be part of a family that just shows up. 

What kind of life am I living that my little brother can find me because we share a space like this, a lake house gifted by the sacrifice and hard work of our parents who wanted their family to have something special?

At that moment, my heart shifted. I wasn’t upset about the water getting on my bible. I was grateful. 

Grateful for a brother who rides a jetski with his friends and somehow still drifts my way. Grateful for parents who worked hard not just to build a life, but to build memories. Grateful for the kind of wealth you can’t measure in square footage, money, or horsepower. 

See, I came to the lake to be alone– and God met me there– but not in the way I expected. He reminded me that being found by family, even in the middle of water, is a gift not everyone gets. 

I would rather be interrupted in the center of the lake by people who love me than be surrounded by perfect peace with no one looking for me at all. 

We spend so much time chasing solitude thinking it will bring us peace, but sometimes the greatest peace comes from being known, being pursued, and being loved– even when it’s loud, annoying, and inconvenient. 

Faith isn’t always found in quiet corners. Sometimes it’s found in the middle of splashing waves and buzzing engines, when you realize that grace looks alot like being seen. 

The lake house may be a storage unit with a dock, but it’s also a special place. A place where God finds me and where my family does too. It holds more than jet skis and a boat– it’s where grace, connection, and the reminder that real riches look a lot like people who won’t stop showing up. 

• S.W.