North Shore of Lake Minnetonka, city of Wayzata. This weekend, for the first time, I stood in a place I’ve passed countless times—one that I will never grow tired of. It felt as if nothing could change that. And I hope it remains that way for decades to come.
There is something about returning to the same ground with new eyes. With each visit, something deeper awakens. I didn’t come to write a story—I came to walk, to remember, and to see. But somewhere along the path, the pain I hadn’t yet spoken of, and the miracle I hadn’t yet asked for, both took my hand. And that’s how this story began—quietly, like a breath returning to the body. At first, it might feel like memory, or even routine—but beneath it is something older, quieter, waiting to take root.
On an early morning walk, as the water became remarkably clear, I could see the green weeds below, and among them, fish—most blending into the green, swimming quietly by. But then my eye caught a glint of something foreign—a candy wrapper drifting like a false leaf in the current. I chose not to dwell on it. Not today. Some struggles are better left in the background, especially when the heart has chosen joy.
Still, I knew in that moment that I was not alone. What I felt, many others feel—again and again. The cause may differ, but the weight is the same. Whether it enters through grief, betrayal, or disappointment, it floats there like that wrapper: foreign, colorfully out of place, and without the means to grab or swallow—but somehow still capable of disturbing the stillness.
And so it is with pride, or the hunger for control, or the insistence to insert oneself into another’s life—not like a gentle garden guest, but like an idol demanding attention that was never deserved. That too is foreign. That too disturbs the water.
But truthfully, not all battles stay quiet.
There are days when the cold wind howls like a predator, daring you to fight on its terms, on its turf—knowing full well you stand no chance. That’s how grief moves through a soul. I’ve lost friends. I’ve lost family. One by one, they vanished—not just in flesh but in trust, in closeness, in presence. I’ve come to know the cruelty of a world driven by dominance and control. And yet I believe nature knows this pain too—life is lost every day out here, often without ceremony. But nature does not grow bitter; it turns loss into rhythm.
And I—though left with ashes—choose to stand, not with vengeance, but clothed in the full armor of God. By His grace, I face what I cannot undo.
Because what unfolded next lifted me beyond words.
The sky cracked open in hues of pink and gold, casting long strokes of amber across the lake. It was the kind of light that slows your breath. The kind that arrives only when spring begins to remember summer. The lake, like a perfect mirror, returned every color with grace.
This place draws me in again and again. The water, air, fire, and earth judge no one—they welcome all. The humble ground rolls beneath our feet; the water and wind sustain life in harmony. Nothing we do adds to their essence—or maybe it does, and I’ve yet to understand how.
Yesterday, a young boy couldn’t contain his excitement—he had seen a long, big fish. I wanted to see it too. From his description, it could only have been a Northern Pike. I’ve seen one before, in a different lake.
Earlier that day, I took photos of a faithful duck—always part of the scene, like the sparrows. Without them, this place would not be the same. Since the lakewalk was built, I’ve watched sparrows perch on the metal wire, pause, then fly to the roof rail, pick something up, and fly away. They’ve become part of the cleaning crew.
Today, as I passed an eagle’s nest, a thought came to me—about how they communicate compared to how we do. We use words, drawings, and digital art, trying to say what words alone cannot. But the eagle’s sentences are written in silence—in the arc of their flight, in the sharp cry we hear: a warning, a presence, a declaration—“Here I come.”
I’ve seen their majestic flight—how they rise and fall with the storm, surrendering to the wind, letting go, trusting it to carry them. Like a mysterious rollercoaster vanishing behind the island, only to reappear on the other side, adding magic to the scene.
The lake comes to life toward evening, in mid-spring, when the ice finally melts and water is once again free to flow. Heaven and earth meet in the glassy surface and become one in a display of living color. Every day is a new story—even the bitter cold ones, when your fingers go numb and your ears burn. Still, the lake writes its story into our minds, then rolls out a white carpet and welcomes us like royalty.
This Memorial Weekend, I spent most of my time—after work, or between deliveries—by the lake, camera in hand. Not just to shoot—but to see. To witness.
While there, I wrestled with old hurts—but I chose not to dwell. I turned instead to the light.
And I learned something: how the body turns sunlight and UV into Vitamin D. A marvelous, quiet miracle. That understanding planted a seed in me—one that began to grow. Like a slow and steady vine, it reminded me that this process—complex though it is—exists to help us see, feel, and experience life in its fullness. To learn it is to be humbled. And in that humility, to let go of the idea that we must have mastery over others, over things, or even over nations. It all comes back to something many have forgotten—hope. Hope that restores, renews, and points us gently back to the simple joys that were always waiting for us.
With those thoughts, behold—an eagle. No—two. Three. Each had spotted a large fish near the island. From where I stood, they looked a million miles away. I wished I had a bigger lens. But I was determined to capture the moment.
The story itself had already taken flight—first through thoughts, like wind carried on the wings of morning, rising quietly in the mind of the one who sees. But by some grace, what is seen by one may also be felt by another. That, too, is the miracle of living a conscious life: that we might share it.
Grace, hope, and love—these are invisible, until they become visible through the miracle of surrender. Like the sky and the earth growing radiant for a moment of union, there are moments in life when we, too, are drawn into something greater. In that surrender, we are no longer the center—but part of something whole. We feel, we sense, we witness the One who shaped us in His own image: the image of justice, mercy, grace, and love.
These images come from just a few minutes of unfolding action—stitched together into a canvas of color and motion. The struggle for life took seconds. The telling of it took hours.
I hope you feel what I saw.
Because in the end, all it takes is a small change of heart—
What is real is hope. A never-dying hope. A living hope that never dies.
And when that hope is real, it lands with the power of thunder,
And leaves the world gasping for air.
Your Neighbor,
Abdul Wahab Saifee
05-26-2025