Sometimes there are no pictures that can illustrate my adventures. There is no picture, for instance, that can convey how I feel in the quiet stillness of a lake in the North Woods, as I set out for an early morning paddle in my kayak. Moe jumps aboard, alert to any motion or sound on the water, and settles himself on my lap.

My kayak glides without sound, making the only ripples in the water, as I maneuver through duckweed and water llilies along the shore. The air is cool and the morning cloud cover has not yet burnt off. A flotilla of ducklings, nearly grown now in late July, paddles by with their watchful mama.

I circle around the small lake we are camped on, when I notice what looks like a gap across the lake. As I paddle closer, I realize there is more lake on the other side—this lake is much larger than I realized. It opens out before me—so large it fades into the haze on the far side. As I paddle out into the main lake, the sun parts the clouds suddenly, sending beams radiating across the lake.

I am surprised by the tears filling my eyes, and by an overwhelming sense of wonder and awe. This beauty around me was not made by us: it existed long before humans, and (God willing) will remain long after we are gone. It exists—in and entirely of—itself, and I am full of gratitude.

The clouds give way to sunshine, and I turn toward camp and away from a glory that has become too brilliant. Moe lays his head on my knee, and with a contented groan, closes his eyes.