My old friend Rita, my daughter, Wynn, and I were sitting at the top of Big Spring Falls in Wisconsin in early June, watching the water pour over the falls, topple onto rocks and churn into rapids, pushing into the Eau Claire River.
How could anyone deny Mother Nature’s glory? I’d been raised Catholic, but the great outdoors was my cathedral, where I felt closest to God, most connected to the wider world, though I’d lapsed in recent years. Ever since my husband’s drinking got out of control.
Five-year-old Wynn dipped her toes into the sparkling, clear water. In spite of everything she’d been through—her father’s alcoholism and abandonment, the coronavirus quarantine, her preschool closing, my temporary unemployment, the upheaval in the Twin Cities—Wynn remained a spectacular little girl. Funny,…
