I packed my trailer twice that year.

In July 2020, I did not pack it with mountain bikes, luggage, and gear for Adventure Camp in Wyoming with YFC teenagers, as I’d done for the previous 16 summers.

‍

I drove it to the outer edges of the Twin Cities Metro and filled it with my parents’ knick-knacks, their precious artwork, their entertainment center, books, bedding, and kitchen supplies—all collected from their home of 45 years. Later, in November 2020, I traveled to northern Minnesota to fill the same trailer with antique furniture from the hunting shack, tools, farmyard debris, hunting equipment, and scrap sheet metal, all gleaned and gathered from our property in the dark woods.

2020 brought a kind of interruption which, when welcomed and not resisted, would make space for honest reflection and reconsideration. It was in that space our family decided to sell these two properties, which had become the primary context for our entire life together. And so I packed the trailer… twice.

I grew up on Harrow Ave. N. in Forest Lake, Minnesota. Besides my birthday, John 3:16, and our home phone number, knowing this street address (if you could call the old dusty dirt road a “street”) was one of my earliest commitments to memory. Though the home was a very modest 1970’s split-level classic, its unique 16 ft. foyer ceiling served as a frequent bragging point for my parents well into middle age. It’s blue-green shag carpeted living room and velvety textured wallpapers did not age so gracefully, however. Still, this was my home. I wrote papers there. Hauled wood. Built Legos. Played Mario. Prank called strangers from the landline. Brought home the girl who would become my wife. Played with my dog in the yard. Teased my sister. Memorized verses with my mom. Hosted sleepovers with hoodlems.

It was difficult for me to close the front door of that house for the last time…

… but it was right.

I didn’t grow up hunting. As a teenager, I was too busy playing basketball to join my dad on his excursions up north. Later, college, marriage, and seminary would consume my story (not hunting). Finally, after settling in St. Cloud in 2002, and after having put-off my dad for decades and as a way to improve our relationship, I decided to give it a go. I haven’t missed a season since. Dad signed the deed for the north-woods 120 acres to me in 2012.

Now, after having harvested 10+ beautiful bucks from that land myself, after the countless games of cribbage played at the little porcelain-surfaced table, after the near fatal family feuds over the ungodly temperatures inadvertently achieved in that little sweat lodge (the wood stove was WAY too big for our wee 12’ x 16’ abode. It got so hot!), after watching my kids grow up in that space, after mumbling ceaseless and secret prayers in those deer stands, it somehow feels right (though strange) to see this property pass on to the next owner.

2020 helped me say goodbye to the House on Harrow Ave. N. and to the Shack. I used that year to consider their place in my story, and as I did, I welcomed the gratitude growing in me. But there’s more there. There’s hope. As I continue to release these sacred plots of land to my memory and to grace, I’m becoming free to imagine a kingdom that is emerging from the husk of the old. It’s the kind of kingdom depicted in those bedside memory verses. It’s the kind of kingdom echoed in my mumbled prayers from the deer stand. It’s a better country altogether, one where no trailers are required.

If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had the opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.

Hebrews 11:15-16

‍