In the glow of a mid-February twilight, as falling snow dusted the lining of my coat, I walked on water.
I was on a trip with my Christian fellowship, enjoying a weekend of sing-alongs, talks, and games in the woods of eastern Connecticut. During the afternoon of the second day, several friends convinced me to explore the frozen lake below the retreat center. I was wary—the ice seemed slick and merciless. I had read Little Women as a child; there was no way I was going to risk hypothermia by crashing through the ice a-la-Amy March.
Despite my qualms, my friends reassured me; lots of people on the retreat had already traversed the lake and made it to the island in the distance with no problems. And while exploring earlier, they had met an ice fisherman who showed them how thick the sheet was. A car can drive across it, he said. Eventually, semi-convinced, I agreed to go out, wondering if I was about to make an awful decision. Finally, I steeled my nerves, lifted my boot off the shore, and placed it on the ice.
❄❄❄
For the past three years, I’ve attended the same fellowship retreat at the same camp every February. As I’ve returned year after year, the woods and the mess hall and the lake stretching out into the distance have become familiar to me. While I spend no more than 48 hours there every year, I feel that I know this place—the smell of the cabins, the trail that leads to a beaver dam, the white metal cross standing sentinel over the leaf-strewn fire pit.
Yet, despite how much stays the same, the camp still changes every year. During my first retreat, it was sunny and dry outside. Dead leaves covered the ground, and at night we laid on the lake’s dock, staring up at the stars. The water was bright blue, and I sat in silence one morning, watching a seagull bob on the waves.
The next year, the trails were covered in snow. I hadn’t thought to bring boots, so I crunched through the drifts in my sneakers, toes growing numb from the cold. Patches of ice floated in the shallows of the lake, but the skies were mostly clear, streaked with clouds and glowing pale at sunset.
During this final year, the camp was overcast, and the lake stood still and imposing. Ice coated the gravel parking lot, and my footsteps were loud, echoing as I broke through frozen snow while walking through the trees. I found the same rock where I had sat watching the seagull two years prior. I remembered how the water had once lapped at the shore, babbling and sweet. But now the lake spoke in a deeper voice, calling out from beneath the ice. Every few minutes, it would groan and bubble, as if some massive force was trying to burst free from its charcoal depths.
Though singing ice was new to me as a born and raised Californian, it’s not uncommon for ice to respond loudly to temperature changes. John A. Downing describes ice as a type of drum: a surface that quakes when impacted. When the outside air or water below the sheet heats up or cools down, the ice will expand or contract respectively, leading to strange creaking noises. While the lake in Connecticut was relatively quiet, others could sound like lasers, pinging and echoing beneath their smooth, deep surfaces.
❄❄❄
As the five of us ventured out on the lake, I was cognizant of all the risks in front of me. I avoided anything that looked remotely like a crack, and I shuffled slowly to avoid slipping and breaking one of my precious bones. We stopped frequently, taking pictures and creating snow angels in the fresh powder. I raised my head and let the falling snow touch my face, trying to taste the flakes on my tongue.
As I looked out across the surface, I remembered the Biblical description of the throne room of God in Revelation 4:6. Something like a sea of glass, similar to crystal, was also before the throne. In the blue air, I thought about Heaven, images of fields stretching out to the horizon, songs rising all through the night. A world of safety, peace, and life never-ending. But still, my fears remained.
❄❄❄
Dying on a frozen lake is only one of the things I’m afraid of. Bicycles. Hurting people. Expired pasta salad. Forgetting the past. So much scares me. What will happen in the unknown of tomorrow? Will I survive if I take a leap of faith, try something new, and fail?
As my future beyond Brown begins to loom large, I’ve seen my fears intensify. The world away from the hills of Providence feels like a blank canvas: an empty, seamless room. What will happen once I leave this place? Will my friendships remain? Will I continue to find joy and beauty? Or will I slip and fall, crashing through the ice?
❄❄❄
The shore receding, I grew more confident in my ability to traverse the lake. Soon enough, I longed to go faster and faster to cover as much of the surface as possible. I wanted to see where the fisherman had drilled his hole. I wanted to touch the craggy island in the center that had once seemed like another world. For the first time, I wished I knew how to skate so I could cut across the ice, swift and sure as a bird in flight.
As I continued walking, one of my friends dragged her boot through the snow until the bubbly gray surface appeared. She pushed off and glided across the track as if riding a skateboard.
“Sydney, come try,” she called out. I shook my head, held in place by my fear of falling. She had me hold her hands and pull so we could skate toward one another across the track. But when we tried, she slid smoothly while my boots barely moved an inch. I was still too scared to let go.
❄❄❄
Over and over, fear has choked me, holding me back. I’ve avoided events, stressed that everyone secretly hates me. I’ve refused to share what I believe, worried I’ll be judged. Even the smallest decisions, like my running routes or where I sit in the Ratty, are based on fear. It’s not uncommon or bad to be scared. Fear has an evolutionary purpose; it’s the instinct that has helped the human race survive for thousands of years. But sometimes the worry feels stifling, and the lengths to which I’ll go to avoid it ridiculous.
I’ve even tried to run from my fear of the future. I don’t like to talk about what comes after graduation. I shut down when my parents bring up something as simple as my summer plans or apartment hunting. It just makes me think about life beyond this place, a boundless space with so many risks and trials. I know there’s goodness out there, somewhere amid the vast, icy landscape. But what if I can’t access it?
❄❄❄
Earlier in the day, before traversing the lake, our speaker for the weekend gave a sermon. As he talked about the love and forgiveness of God, I spotted a flash outside the wall of windows in the front of the room. There, soaring above the lake, were enormous brown wings, sharp yellow claws, and a pure white tail and head feathers: A bald eagle, hunting and nesting in the woods on the shore. As I watched it fly, I wanted to ask where it was going. Bald eagles subsist primarily on fish. In a world of ice, what could possibly be out there? And even if a hunting hole appeared on the surface, were any fish still alive? How could anything survive in such emptiness and cold?
But life finds a way. When food supplies are low and fish are difficult to access, bald eagles will eat anything they can get their claws on; waterfowl, squirrels, even garbage. And as lakes freeze over, freshwater fish go into a semi-hibernation called “winter rest” where they settle into deeper pools filled with warmer water. As the season marches on, fish metabolisms slow, allowing the creatures to consume less oxygen and food until the world thaws. Animals are adaptable in that way. They know the world will not end with ice.
❄❄❄
Eventually, we turned back from our walk across the lake, having been called in for dinner. I shuffled back to shore, then climbed up the hill and into the mess hall, my glasses steaming with the sudden heat. I never made it to the island. And now I never will.
The next morning, a few hours before leaving the camp, everyone on the trip stood in a circle and sang together, arms across each other’s shoulders. I looked around the room, at every person I love so fiercely, and I teared up. I don’t want to leave these things behind for the unknown. I don’t want to risk slipping and falling.
But I know when I don’t take that step offshore, I risk missing out on joy, the fierce, beating type. I miss climbing on islands and snow coating my braids and dancing with friends in the dying winter light. The ice can be terrifying, cold and slick and groaning. Yet there is life to be found, warm waters to rest in, and food to find. The surface won’t break beneath me.
As I finish up my final feature for post-, I’ve been reflecting on endings and fear, especially as I revisit the concepts from my first article two years ago. There, I discussed my yearly dread around my birthday; anxieties about my own unworthiness, the nagging suspicion that everything would somehow fall apart on a day that’s meant to be perfect. I was scared of my birthday because, in many ways, I feared the future. What if nothing went as planned? What if there was no joy waiting for me when the day finally arrived? But despite my qualms, my 20th birthday was wonderful. Things have a funny way of working out, I guess.
I bring all of this up because, in a strange twist of fate, this last piece will be published on my 22nd birthday. It is an occasion I once dreaded, but one I finally feel mildly excited for. I still do not know exactly what will happen on that day, and the concept of aging remains immensely daunting. But I know now that I’m no longer afraid of my birthday. There will be goodness ahead, I’m sure of it. So maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to fear the future beyond Brown, either. I just have to trust in the ice, take the first step, and glide.
