My husband has business in Marquette, Michigan, so we’re stretching the week into a mini vacation. One of those hurry-up-and-have fun times. Making memories with the grandgirl.
We’re on Mackinac Island. Gracee doesn’t remember her first visit. She rode on Papa’s back then. So everything for her is a new memory.
From the ferry ride over to riding bikes around the island to an island carriage tour (that includes a horse named King.)
(There are a couple emergency vehicles on the island, but other than that, no motorized traffic allowed.)
We’re staying in a bed and breakfast inn, lulled to sleep by the sound of taps played from the fort and the clop-clop of horses’ hooves.
St. Anne’s Catholic Church is right next door.
Inside, Grace lingers at each station of the cross.
At the last station, portraying Jesus being placed in the tomb, she whispers, “Why is this the end?”
I think about that for a minute.
“When Jesus died,” I whisper back, “most thought that was the end. It’s important to think about what Jesus went through for us. But now we know it was just the beginning.”
She smiles and nods.
The Original Butterfly House is on the street behind us.
I ask why some of the butterflies look ragged around the edges.
They tell us the adult butterflies only live for about two weeks, and the raggedness is a sign the end is near.
There are days I feel pretty ragged.
It’s a reminder of how brief our lives are when measured by eternity.
How we need to grab hold of it while we can.
And enjoy the journey.
To the end and the beginning.