Mary's Pause, My Reminder

Trees down in Front of Homes

Mary and I drove up to our second home in Door County over Labor Day weekend knowing a storm had ripped through on August 9th. The news was filled with words like tornado and even derecho, and by the time we arrived, the evidence was undeniable. A tree had fallen from its roots across the back of our house, its branches piercing into the roof shingles and rooms inside. It then broke it two and did the same to the front.

The old saying comes to mind: at least no one died. True—and for that I am grateful—but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t loss. Trees that had stood for a century were pulled out by their roots, entire lives of growth ended in a single gust. You could feel the storm’s violence in the silence it left behind.

Mary and I did what needed to be done. Most of the tree was gone when we arrived by the DNR and tree services. We dragged heavy branches into piles, cut through twisted limbs, and fed them into the fire. I’ve always liked a good fire, and this one was more than just warmth—it was a way of resetting. There’s something primal about the crackle of burning wood, the smoke rising as if carrying away the chaos. I have written about this before.

After hours of work, we had a barbecue together, eating in the glow of the flames, smoke still clinging to our clothes, the yard a little more under control than when we started.

Later, as dusk was close, curiosity pulled us outward. We walked to see how our neighbors had fared. It was shocking—massive trees torn out of the ground, twelve-foot root systems flipped upright like sculptures of destruction. Entire landscapes were changed in ways that will last for decades.

Groups of Trees Tilting Over

And yet, just steps away at the lake, the water was calm, glassy, as though nothing had happened. Two worlds existing side by side: devastation and serenity.

That’s when Mary did what she always does—what I love about her most. She stopped. She noticed. She found the beauty at the water’s edge, in the fragile green of new growth clinging to the rocks.

Mary Stopping to Take a Picture

While I was caught up in measuring the storm’s force, cataloging destruction, and taking pictures of the damage, she was seeing the quiet resilience. She took a photo of that new growth, and I, in turn, took a photo of her. That’s how I think of her: always capturing beauty, always reminding me that renewal happens even in the harshest places.

Mary's Picture of New Growth

Science now tells us that trees communicate, sharing nutrients and signals underground. Which makes me wonder—when the storm ripped through, did the forest grieve? Did they warn each other? Not all of them survived. In that sense, yes, there was death. And yet even here, change continues. The fallen will rot and return to the soil, nourishing what comes next.

Here is my take on this. Storms—whether in weather, in life, or in our own minds—tear through without asking permission. They leave scars. They topple what we thought was immovable. But if we’re willing to look closely, like Mary does, we’ll see the beginnings of new life. Growth doesn’t erase the loss, but it makes space for something different, something we might not yet understand.