Francie Arenson Dickman

The title page of the booklet on my desk has an impressionistic pen and ink drawing of a lake, the arc of a sunset, and a little open sided building we called the half-way house because it was half way between the top of the last flight of stairs from the cottages to the beach.  A slightly diseased bouquet of plants meant to be Peter’s Pence, or as they were known to us kids as Silver Dollars, decorate either side at the page’s bottom.

The booklet says it is a “Book of Memories” of a place called Linden Hills from 1902 to 2002.  My memories of this place on the shores of Lake Michigan began in 1940, the year my American family returned from England where my father had ministered to a congregation.  But that’s another story.  

Liinden Hills quickly became my favorite place in all the world.

As I read through these memories, written by relatives and friends more than a few now gone, I realize I’m not the only one whose haven was this little enclave.  Others have felt the gentle, unbreakable bond that this place on the bluffs of Lake Michigan has with me.  Each and every one of the writers in this booklet loved the place. 

Each time I hear that one of the family is spending time there, it makes me happy.  It gives me comfort just to hear the name.  It especially helps to recall the Hills when times are tough.  And tough times come in all our lives. 

I guess it’s too much to hope that everyone has a place like Linden Hills. Somewhere they can call to mind in moments of stress or even despair. 

If you have a place like this to recall, good for you.  But if you don’t, if there’s no safe haven that you’ve experienced in past times, feel free to create one of your own.  Imagine a place that would make you feel happy and cared for.  Keep it in mind when you need it.  Go there.  

Try it, dear reader.   I bet it works.