My dear friends, my heart physically rooted in anxiety and fear the night of October 1, 2017. As I tried to lure myself to sleep after being so very close to the mass shooting in Las Vegas that night, those roots clenched my soul with unfriendly claws. I signed a promise with myself — that I would bravely follow where I felt the Spirit leading me, to soak in all of the possible joy and beauty each day I'm given to wake up. I learned that life is far too short to prolong following the call.

Fear made that promise hard to keep, though. In the months following that night, I have experienced frequent, full-on panic attacks. The memories, the sounds, the fear tends to creep back in as the sun goes down. During those moments, I cannot breathe or feel anything but fear and darkness. I found myself combatting each anxiety battle with vocalized reminders of Camp Fontanelle. The presence of God. Sculptural campfires. Silly songs and cabin chats. Who I was when I worked as a camp counselor. The essence, the goodness of summer camp, all presented a Light Force against anxiety.

There was nothing wrong with my church job, or my life in Grand Island. It was good, normal and safe — but I grew to struggle with feeling mentally aligned with my days. I largely attribute that to my experience in Las Vegas, because I strongly believe that traumatic events can trigger a loss of self.

In complete transparency, I felt my sense of identity slipping away, despite the fact that I consistently preached bravery and wildness. I wanted others to realize their own courage, yet I felt like an impostor and a liar — a Kate I couldn’t recognize in the bathroom mirror.

But my dear friends, I experienced a major heart shift, a beacon of peace and hope on March 25 of this year. I drove down the familiar gravel road to Camp Fontanelle for the first time since my travels to the Southwest. It was raining just a little bit as I made a left turn down the lane. “Washed by the Water” shuffled onto my Spotify playlist.

I parked my car and breathed. Immediately, I could physically feel my spirit rekindling and healing itself. The permanently-rooted anxiety and fear was pulled up by joy and faithfulness. The obvious presence of God, the years of camp memories that make my heart grow towards the sun came flooding back into my soul. I could breathe again, fully and sweetly. The spark of the identity I craved returned. Besides the sanctuary of my family’s home, Camp Fontanelle is the place where I can find the essence of myself. It’s safe.

I realized once I set foot on the camp soil that the Spirit was calling me to use my hands and heart in the forest again. I did not inquire about a position that day, but my feeling was confirmed when Joel, the program director, offered me a job. No application, no interview. Just a simple, “Kate, we have a spot for you here this summer if you want it.”

The decision all happened so very quickly, though it wasn’t a spur of the moment life change. I promised myself that night in Vegas that when a Spirit-led opportunity presented itself, I would seize it. I would take it as my biggest Bravery Mission yet and see how God could use my heart. I think October 1, 2017 sealed the deal that camping ministry is within my calling.

So, back to the forest I will go for my fifth summer — to serve and plant seeds for God’s wild Kingdom at Camp Fontanelle. To remind young people just how seen, worthy, deeply beloved and brave they are, whether they realize it yet or not. My purpose feels strong within a summer camp setting, and I am strong there.

Following God’s call isn’t always easy. There are good things that must be left behind in order to move forward. I’ve grown to deeply care for the people at Trinity United Methodist Church, where I served as the Publications Director for the past sixteen months. I will dearly miss working alongside the genuinely incredible humans I have met there. My good memories and experiences of serving at Trinity have been expansive — from working with the middle school youth group, to creating content for worship services, to my beautiful coworkers and building connections with those who came into the office — a web of goodness will reside fondly in my memories of Trinity. I am a better human from working there, and I am grateful for that.

With a sense of bittersweetness, I have resigned from my job at Trinity and will be moving out of my little, dear apartment at the end of April. Most of my belongings will live in a storage unit for the summer, aside from my camp counselor necessities.

I’ll move back to Fontanelle a few weeks before training starts — time that I will use to completely reset my heart before my camp counselor duties begin. Hikes, fire building, yoga in the forest, writing words for my book, painting murals in the lodge basement, deep breathing in the clean air. Regaining my sense of identity, rooted in bravery.

I am walking into my fifth summer as a camp counselor with a different mindset than my previous four summers. I was young, excited and ready to serve. I still certainly carry those pieces of the past — but now with an unusually heavy desire to soak in every moment of beauty and wonder in this little life I own.

This will be a summer of personal discernment, as I don’t have a plan set up for after August. I remind myself that it’s okay to not have plans because opportunities for beautiful adventures rest in the unknown. I would be a hypocrite to preach on Bravery Missions if I didn’t take gambles on trust and discernment. The future seems hazy, but oh — my life’s trail is certain to be one of growth towards the sun.

Abraham was called to go forth with Fearless Faith and to make a great nation, thousands of years ago. He did it. I’m going back into the forest, Chacos and water bottle in tow. I’m going to grow towards the sun, and so are you.

Bravely,

Kate Laing

Rivers in the Wasteland Available Now: http://smarturl.it/NTBWasteland © 2008 WMG Washed By The Water (video)

TW // Las Vegas Shooting, mass shootings

I’m glad it was me, I’m glad it was me, I’m glad it was me. 

My sweet Allie would have asked to attend that concert because she likes country music. If she’d been with us, odds are we would have been there. Maybe we wouldn’t still be breathing.

Emmy is strong and sharp, but also sensitive. Odds are she might be annoyed I’ve said that, my friend, but I know it’s true. I’m the oldest of three sisters. It’s deeply rooted in me to protect both of them, to try and battle away the darkness of this earth from touching them directly. I feel a responsibility to keep my little sisters safe. I’m glad it was me in Vegas, not them.

---

October 2, 2:15 a.m.

Darling, you should be able to walk through your days safe and sound. I pray that you never experience the very second when you know something's not right. Chairs were flipped into slot machines, a stampede towards the doors, primal fear etched on human faces. Others shouted that they'd heard gunshots. I didn't hear any but I believed them. We walked briskly to the front door, alertly looking backwards and forward and sideways, then weaving into the crowds of people on the sidewalk all moving in one direction. Instinctual. Go with the crowd.

"HANDS UP, KEEP MOVING TO THE BACK LOT," the police officers sternly and urgently shouted as they held long rifles. Hands up, my dad, stepmom and I moved to behind a parking garage with the crowd — a confused school of fish. I couldn't breathe for I don’t know how long. They said it was happening a few blocks away but you just didn’t know if there were more hiding in the shadows, staring down your body with a gun pointed at it.

An older woman was separated from her friends, afraid. I told her she could stay with us. She looked at me with grateful, kind eyes. We lost her at some point but she found us later and she gave me a warm hug. She’d found her people. I never asked her name. I wish I would have.

Nobody really knew what was happening. Rumors of somebody shooting an automatic weapon into the crowd at a Vegas country music festival. We now know that was the gut-wrenching, teeth-gnashing, horrifyingly evil fact.

There was a sense of shocked camaraderie built on a foundation of fear and panic, as we all checked the news trying to figure out what was happening. We contacted our loved ones and sat in the parking lot into the night. We were safe a few blocks away, but my heart lays shattered and broken. I'm crying for the dear humans who aren't alive anymore. I wish I knew your names and your stories and the laugh-lines on your faces. Pray unceasingly for this violence to cease and to let light prevail over this world's shadows of slithering evil.

I'm safe now. There was blood on our hotel's elevator floor. I didn't sleep very well.

When we returned to Nebraska, I needed time at home. I slept until noon, which I never do. I’d planned to make the two-and-a-half hour trip that day to make it back to work, but my body didn’t make a move towards packing my car. I stayed another night because I felt safe under my mom’s roof.

I tried blocking out the images haunting my mind with memories of the awe and wonder I felt when hiking up Zion’s dusty red rocks. The air was the freshest I’d ever breathed.

I breathed slowly, patting my dog and providing her with too many treats. I sat on the chair in the dining room, feet not touching the floor because that reminded me of my shoes slamming against the Vegas Strip’s sidewalk, eyes constantly on my dad and stepmom. I couldn’t lose them in the crowd. I was safe in my childhood home, where my mom made me muffins and graded papers, where my dog barked at anyone walking outside. It was safe.

Flashbacks rudely popped into my mind. Looking urgently around the flashing Vegas lights. Praying wordlessly that monsters weren’t hiding in the shadows with guns pointed at us. We didn’t know where they were. We had no idea what was happening.

---

My dad called me one day last month to say, “Make sure you get off work. We’re going. I bought our tickets.”

We took the trip for a creative inspiration journey. Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Hoover Dam and Vegas called our names, promising an adventure of beauty to us. And oh, the beauty. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as alive as I did hiking up a canyon to discover the Emerald Pools.

I sat in my car on the driveway of my childhood home for twenty minutes. I didn’t want to go back to the place where I work and live because I felt safe where my dog was on the other side of the front door. My eyes lingered on the steering wheel and the key in the ignition. Rattled breathing made me lightheaded and my shaking hands gripped the steering wheel. I don’t cry often but the occasional tear welled against my eyelashes. I finally left but my heart clenched in anxiety. Each passing car made me jump.

The first time I went to the grocery store was after I’d been back in normality for a week and a half. I was putting the trip off for as long as possible because the store’s maze of aisles made me anxious. I gripped the shopping cart tightly as my brain constantly calculated how closely I was aligned to the front sliding door. The exit. I watched nearby humans’ hands carefully to make sure they weren’t reaching toward their waistbands to pull out a gun.

Sleep didn’t come easy because the tch tch tch tch tch sounds careened around in my otherwise empty mind after hearing the shooting sounds playing repeatedly over the airport’s TVs. I haven’t watched the news since the second day of October. I think the reporters have probably moved on by now, but the news is all too much for me to take in. It’s too much.
 

A note written for myself and to you.

Darling, you cannot live with Fear as your main companion because pleasure ripples down his spine when he tears open your chest. He cracks apart your ribcage with clawed hands and grabs your heart as he leers, breathing slowly in your face. The chains he slaps across your body keep you from moving and dancing, and he seals your eyes to conceal the light.

Darling, you cannot let Fear do that. Acknowledge he is there but demand that he leaves you alone. Close the door on him and lock it tight. He will knock again and again and again but don’t give him power over your sweet self.

You must wring the beauty out of each breath but don’t let the cloth run dry. You must let beauty linger. Don’t miss out on the drops of joy and creative sparks, because Fear wants you to be oblivious to that. If we let Fear live with us, we’re not living.  

---

Still processing. Still anxious. I don’t think that night will ever leave me. But in the most twisted way, that night in Vegas was a gift. I try to preach bravery as best I can, but I learned abruptly just how fragile life is and how unexpectedly it could be over.

I’m not trying to be morbid, not at all. If anything, I’m trying to remember that each and every moment I am given is the most precious gift — an opportunity to dance and tell people I love them and to do the things my soul aches to do before I leave this earth.

That night was the most terrifying span of time I have experienced. I was scared that I might die. But I was more fearful that I wouldn’t get a chance to talk to all of the people I love most one last time because most of them were sleeping. I was more fearful that I wouldn’t be able to stand on the platform one more time to shout into the noise of the world that each human is seen, worthy and brave. I was angry at myself for the lack of progress I’ve made in writing my book because I feel so strongly about the message I crave to give as a love letter to my readers.

I wasn’t sure if God was going to call me home. I didn’t want to die and I craved more time. I was kept safe. And now I’ve firmly realized my responsibility to get my knees dirty and do the work.

I’ve spent a lot of time this October with my eyes staring at nothing. I fear that my heart is growing too apathetic, too numb because the pain gnashing around the entire world seems to be cracking into my bones and rooting there. My brain and soul are still processing what happened. I’m dealing with the guilt of being traumatized by the event, even though I never had those guns pointing in my direction. But I was close enough.

My breathing has been slow and my heart still feels like it lays in a mosaic at my feet. Each day, I drag myself out of bed, pick up a piece of that mosaic and nestle it back into my body. I can’t let Fear crack my ribcage because I have work to do, even though the flashbacks provide distraction. Eyes forward. Knees on the ground to do the dirty, good work of loving and writing and breathing life.

This earth is meant to be explored and we’re not meant to be locked inside our homes because of fear. I refuse to stay inside. My dad and I hiked to the top of a canyon in the name of seeking the Emerald Pools. We climbed over boulders on a trail with steep drop offs to find a lush oasis among dusty red rocks. Greenery and foliage somehow found it possible to grow through dry cracks of the canyon’s walls.

The rocks and cliffs give way to the wind and the rain, changing ever-so-slightly. Second by second, millions of years. A story that will still be told long after we are called home.

I felt alive, I breathed intentionally and listened to the wisdom from the ancient rocks that made me feel small in the most profound, beautiful way. This earth is brimming with natural, wild beauty that God created for us to take in awe. A masterful architect and artist who renders us speechless, who I’m sure smiles when our eyes dance around and try to take in all we can. To remember all that the dusty red rocks presented.

You must go. You simply don’t know when your eyes won’t open again so you must see the natural, wild beauty with your own eyes. Make a list of what you feel an urgency to go accomplish. You must go. Your hands must move.

Please, tell people you love them. I woke up the morning after it happened with countless missed phone calls, text messages and comments on my social media. Words from people who mean the world to me saying that they were crying because I was safe. That meant the world to me.

Promise me this, I beg you. Breathe from this moment on with more intention, grace, and never for granted. Call off hesitation and fear. Live with a lion’s heart and fire in your eyes.

---

“I will always keep you and your sisters safe. All of you are very, very precious to me and have so much to offer this painful world we seem to live in. My prayer each night is that you all find your way on the path of your dreams. I’m just along for the ride because you all have fulfilled my dreams. Each one of you has made me very proud to be a father and comforter, protector and cheerleader. We survived the whole ordeal because God has much bigger plans for us. We were not called home this time and I will take each day from now on to let people know how much they have to live for. Even in the worst of times, we wake up each day to do what is right and touch all of those around us in positive ways. I love you and miss your laugh already.”

- Dad

I dream quite frequently these days — perhaps the most of owning a place of retreat someday soon, a place somewhere hidden in the forest, yet easy to find. I think it would be slightly reminiscent of a summer camp in nature, where humans looking for something, anything, could come for either solitary retreat or workshops.

I believe I would make this to be a space for hosting writers, makers, explorers, and people who crave a specific place intended for prayer and spiritual practice. I'd do my very best to lead but would also let my sweet visitors lead with their own strengths if they so desired. 

I would cultivate a large garden, full of hydrangeas and greenery and any sort of flower I could manage to grow under the sun. I'm still learning how to take care of plants but I think by the time this place is established, I could nurture a garden. I would invite my visitors, my newfound friends, to enter the gate and forage bouquets of garden-grown blooms. They could dry them to preserve their beauty or perhaps give a flower to a stranger when they've left and gone back to the real world. 

Inside the retreat building itself, I can imagine floral installations brimming from all the nooks and crannies. I would invite visitors to create work while there and leave pieces behind, displayed on the white walls for future guests to be inspired by. In time, the building would be a collective space that gifts an inner look into the sweet souls of those who'd been there before.

For meals, I would ask my new friends to join in cooking together. We would eat what our hands had prepared at the same long, wooden table. After dining, we'd clean up while listening a playlist of joyful tunes and then retreat outside under the stars for campfires and wine or whiskey, and hop straight to the meaningful conversations to know each other's sweet hearts better. I think we'd be comfortable enough with each other for that to happen.

I think this could be a place where creative community could be established and cultivated, away from the darkness that seems to circle the world these days. I've been dreaming of this place for months now. I don't know where it will be or how I'll make it happen, but I wholeheartedly believe it's a soul whisper. Someday you'll all be invited to join me there, I can feel it resonating deep into my bones. This place of retreat is going to come to fruition and I am overcome by desire to make it happen for you and for us as a sweet creative collective. 

Love, what is your dream? Your soul whisper? Let it root, let it grow. Let me know how I can encourage you and help you cultivate it. I think we each have our One Idea that carries a spark of beautiful potential to serve this world, and it deserves to be brought to fruition. I cannot wait to see how beautifully yours grows. 

Rooting for you, always. 

Kate.

I'm officially a week into Year 24 and so far it looks like armfuls of blooms and hair that's easier to take care of because it's shorter now. I wanted to feel more wild and free, and chopping off my hair felt like something I could do that day. So I did. 

Magic seems to dance around a new year — I woke up with a restless wiggle whispering to my bones that a million new trails were set in front of me. I crave to keep that anticipation so very close and near to each minute of my days. After spending a few days walking the forest of Year 24, I figured out the wisdom and intentions I want to tuck into my backpack. You can walk with me, if you'd like to.

1 // Plant the windowsill garden.
I have a hundred dried flowers hanging upside down on my living room wall. I see fresh blooms at the market and imagine how they'd look all dried up and fragile. But I want to start cultivating. Therefore I am planting a windowsill garden — it might not work. Maybe I'll just end up with pots full of dirt. But earthworms like soil, and so do I. 

2 // Let bravery talk. 
I used to live as a mouse, quiet and afraid. I'm working to be wild and free now, to live in joy and intention while seeking beauty and courage. Bravery is my mission. 

3 // Minimize, minimize, minimize. 
In the words of Emily Gilmore, "I'm decluttering my life. If it brings you joy, you keep it. If it doesn't, out it goes."  Does this heavy brass sea lion bring me joy? You betcha — he gets to stay. But anything that doesn't spark nostalgia, purpose or joy, I want it outta here.

4 // Break up with worry.
I've started to write lists of anything and everything that makes me feel anxious or worried. Sometimes there's validity and somedays it's okay, but mostly I get in my own head and they start to sneakily emerge and wiggle their way to cloud my eyes. I'm going to command the thoughts with strength and ferocity to go away and be trampled underneath my bare feet (even if it feels thorny).

5 // Know when it's time to quit. 
I'm going to gain being okay with slamming the old oak door on stuff that's no longer serving me well, and also on things that I can no longer serve well. Do the messy, heavy, dirty work to figure out what's important and what can take the back burner for now. Tear out the weeds. 

6 // Say yes, too. 
It's all about boundaries, babe. It's about taking chances on people, and things that could turn into passion projects or heart works. Say yes to drinking water, wearing soft clothes, coffee dates, love letters and phone calls, and exploring.

7 // Remember that God doesn't hide.
It's not in His nature. Maybe he'll be quiet for a season or two, but that's when it's on me to open the door and listen harder. 

8 // Blaze the trails. 
Drop the seeds behind me as I go, beg the rain and light for growth so that bravery blooms will break the soil and scamper to reach the sky. Forage bouquets, fellow trailblazers, then drop your own seeds. 

9 // Hydrate. 
With coffee. But also with water because my body deserves to be nourished by enough water. And coffee, of course. 

10 // Yell at the trees. 
Like, actually shout at them. I want to march around my neighborhood and holler, "It's beautiful to be alive! Breathe this air! Look at you, trees! You are a work of art and you're rooted here for a reason!" People might think it's weird at first but I think they'll join in when they see how freeing it is to compliment the trees.

11 // Let God amplify.
Pray the big prayers and whisper the smaller ones. Ask that He moves in and around everything.

12 // Buy the plane ticket.
Travel. Go where I feel called to go. And then put more quarters in my adventure jar so that I can buy the next plane ticket. 

13 // Listen to the Soul Whispers and follow the God Winks.
Those are the words my sweet friend Sophie wrote me in a letter. I think when you begin noticing these, I'll start to see just how subtly and strongly God starts weaving His presence and holy touch on all aspects of the every day. Then I think life begins changing and moving and dancing. 

14 // Dig out the rot. 
Come to terms with fear of isolation and fear of growing close to people, and maaaaaybe let myself fall in love. I've got to start digging because burying stuff doesn't make it go away, it just makes weeds grow. And if you let dreams and anticipation fall asleep in muddy water, they'll just drown next to your feet. Move forward with a shovel, babe.

15 // Journal.
Write it all down. Every web of thought that is woven into my day — the grocery lists, the funny human interactions, the prayers, the God Winks. Come back to read it in fifty years. I want to be amused and rattle with tears and not wrestle to remember what I was like when I was 24. 

16 // Sisters and soul sisters are best friends.
And they should be. Find them and root each other on because we shouldn't have to walk through the forest by ourselves. 

17 // Set a budget and knock out loans.
Save that money and be content in living small now — so adventures can come later. 

18 // Don't grow cold when the seasons do.
I tend to let the light go from my eyes when the sun sets sooner. I let the cold wiggle its way into my bones and it doesn't leave until springtime. I want to battle with a lion's heart, to say "HEY WINTER, you don't get to steal my joy. Not this year." I don't want to sleepwalk while I'm awake.

19 // Go outside.
Forage some blooms and take them home. Return to the forest to remember why you started the thing in the first place. Breathe a little easier.

20 // Focus on faith.
Because a faith-filled life is a full life and beauty is woven through all the corners. I want to let God stir my heart so I wake up and fall asleep to joy in Him, instead of weariness.

21 // Do the stuff I keep saying I'll do.
Write the book. Make stickers of my whale who has mushrooms growing on his back. Quit letting Fear get in the way because he's not my pal. Sorry Fear, I have stuff for the world.

22 // Remember that trying to do too much makes things slip through the cracks.
Set intentional, attainable goals and priorities. I don't have to juggle everything at once. And that's okay.

23 // Learn to cook. 
Like, baby steps. First goal — don't burn down the apartment. Just learn how to make a casserole and go from there.

24 // Give myself the titles and say hello to them.  
Florist. Writer. Maker. Seeker of Beauty. Everyday Explorer. Kate.

The wily crew of campers' ears perked up as they swirled their first-night meal of spaghetti onto their forks. They overheard their counselors whispering about the reappearance of the skeletal beast in the forest - murmured words that he was resting just off the path in the nettles, halfway down the trail to the creek. The campers heard stories last year that a beast may have once lived in the forest. Curiosity crept into their bones at the prospect of being the ones to discover the fabled beast. 

As the campers nibbled the last bites of their brownies, the counselors announced that a hike was next. Bug spray was a necessity but the campers decided they'd better collect sticks on the way, too. They needed to arm themselves in case the beast decided to emerge from the forest during the hike. 

The counselors explained that this was to be a silent hike so that they could all enjoy the sounds of nature - but as they walked, the campers were more listening for sound signs that the beast was coming. Perhaps he snacked on small bunnies, maybe nettles and poison ivy, or worse yet — camper-sized humans. 

As they hiked, the wily crew sneakily scooped up sticks from the forest floor. Their fearless camp counselors led them down the trail towards the creak, towards the supposed location of the skeletal beast. The campers' eyes were peeled, scanning the forest for the beast with sticks at the ready for defense. 

A gust of wind came as they sensed something among the nettles. Without pause, they forged ahead with their sticks to proactively fend off what they knew was the beast. 

As the wind moved through the foliage and sticks barreled through the air, the beast came into line of sight — but he was still. Preserved in time.

He was truly just a skeleton, once living but now left behind to become a part of the forest as nettles creeped among him. The fabled tale was true — a beast once roamed Camp Fontanelle and he remains to stand in the trees as a guardian of the forest, for the sake of wily campers to discover him. 

---

The lovely Lydia Daigle and I teamed up for the @artstew52 Week 22 Diptych prompt collaboration! Oh what fun it was for both of us to take a photograph of foliage that seem to mirror each other (Lydia's is on the left, mine's the right) and write short stories of the seasons. Click her name above to read a winter tale about sledding and a grumpy old man! It's golden.

My story was inspired by a metal skeletal beast sculpture I welded together and hid in the forest at Camp Fontanelle. A little girl from my church was a camper several weeks ago and she came back to tell me how they found the beast in the forest and threw sticks at him. I told her he didn’t eat humans -- rather he was on a nettles diet ;)