Sunset at Fish Creek

Last week, Cathy and I went on a "fish boil" date at Pelletier's, in Door County's quaint little village, Fish Creek. I know "fish boil" doesn't sound too romantic -- but it was a memorable experience nonetheless-- and better than it sounds. (They throw kerosine on the fire, but none of it gets on the fish.)

Holding hands on our way back to the car, I noticed a little trail leading into the woods with a sign pointing to "sunset beach."

Our curiosity got the best of us, and we followed the narrow footpath through a maze of trees, and found ourselves at a small park overlooking Green Bay.

The sun, slowly sinking in the west, created breathtaking blends of orange, purple, red and black. It was like a classic piece of art being painted by a Master before our very eyes.

About 75 people had gathered at sunset beach that evening, observing the majesty in hushed reverence. We were total strangers to one another, yet, somehow, felt like family -- or perhaps, a congregation.

"This is a cathedral" Cathy whispered, and I nodded. It felt just the same as when we entered St. Giles and Westminster last spring: like a cathedral, indeed -- only better!

I thought, "Maybe I should take an offering!"

A single loon glided silently before us, her haunting call echoing across the lake.

The orange sun finally took bow and settled beyond horizon. Spontaneously, the crowd broke the silence with applause, and ambled away.

I said, "Amen."

Cathy and I lingered for a while longer than the others, her head nestled gently on my shoulder.

At that tender moment, I realized I'd never loved her so much before.