Foggy Thinking

            “You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord, who abide in his shadow for life. Say to the Lord: My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!” —lyrics from the song On Eagle’s Wings, written by Michael Joncas based upon Psalm 31 and Isaiah 40:31

It began last weekend. I first perceived a sore throat Friday evening after dinner, but thought nothing of it. After all, I am a teacher; I use my voice all week long. Most likely, my throat, like the rest of my body, was just tired from the week’s work. Saturday morning, however, unable to breathe through my nose, throat feeling as if someone had poured scalding water down it, head aching, and wads of discarded tissues increasing in the trashcan led me the conclusion, I had acquired a minor cold.


When you have a head cold, at least for me, my thinking can be a bit foggy at times. Ironically enough, I couldn’t help but notice the mornings, this past week, were similarly foggy. Early morning, as John, my husband, and I traversed to the local gym, we drove through fog as dense as my grandmother’s chicken and dumplin’ gravy. Similarly, this is what I envisioned my head cold was doing to my brain, blurring my thinking the way the fog was muddling the our view of the road and surrounding landscape.

          “The snare of the fowler will never capture you, and famine will bring you no fear; Under his wings your refuge, his faithfulness your shield.”

Nonetheless, I persevered well enough through the day, but by evening was more fatigued than usual. Along with that fatigue came the fact, I felt a bit more stressed, a bit more overwhelmed, and a bit more “behind.” In fact, I cannot tell you how often I stated or thought, “I am so far behind,” or “I can’t keep up.”

This image of heart in moss was pointed out to me during the week by one of my students. She said it was a message of love.

Piles of papers, in need of grading, were in constant stack on my desk. Likewise, my inbox of email was growing. Tests needed typed. Equipment/technology wasn’t working the way it should. I had this deadline, and that deadline; this request to fulfill, and that request to honor. I felt like the box turtles I often see sluggishly moving across our backyard as I slowly, but steadily made my way through each moment, each situation, and each day. Still, fog clouded my sense of accomplishment—altering my perception.

          “You need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day; Though thousands fall about you, near you it shall not come”

Of note, though, was a conversation I had with a student and her parents one evening during the week. John and I ran into this family during dinner out a local favorite, La Famiglia. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, the student was sharing with us some of her favorite songs she sang in our school choir, and one of those songs happened to be On Eagle’s Wings—one of my personal favorites. I shared with her how it always reminded me of my maternal grandmother, with whom I had the honor of living for two years.

Grandmother Helen read from her large print Bible every night before going to bed. Some nights, if her eyes were tired, she would ask me to read to her. Isaiah, Chapter 40 was a frequent request. She especially loved verse 31.


In the meantime, Friday finally arrived, and my cold was beginning to dissipate in the same manner fog is gradually burned off with the morning sun. With Friday, comes school mass. If I am to be totally honest, when I first arrived at St. Joseph Catholic School five years ago, giving up class time every week to a church service was not an easy adjustment.   Now, however, I see and appreciate the beauty and reasoning behind it.

     “For to his angels, he’s given command to guard you in all of your way; Upon their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot again a stone.”

First, there is the powerful image of seeing our entire K-8 staff and students, of diverse faith backgrounds, respectfully gathered together in church filling nearly every pew. To this day, it never fails to stir me, and honestly, make me smile. I love seeing the students actively participating in church and observing their growth from year to year.

This image of a heavenly heart in the tree canopy on the hiking trail of Huntington Museum of Art was photographed while I was on a hike with my Dad. It’s funny, I didn’t see the heart image until much later looking back at the photos.

Secondly, and more personally speaking, I often feel more receptive on Friday. Perhaps, it is because I am tired; maybe it is because Father Dean’s message is simple; maybe it is hearing the voices of children singing; or, maybe it is the image of all students raising their hands during the recitation of Lord’s Prayer; and, maybe it is all of it combined. Whatever the reason, Friday church resonates within my being.


This week was no exception. As Divine Providence would have it, the communion hymn was On Eagle’s Wings. As I knelt in prayer following communion, my mind, for whatever reason, became filled with various images in rapid-fire succession: Sitting with my Dad and three siblings as he read to us the Christmas story from Luke every Christmas Eve when I was a child. My mom fitting me for a dress she was sewing for my high school graduation—the same dress that would be cut up some 16 years later to become my daughter’s baptism dress. Watching my husband, napping on the couch, with our daughter curled up on top of his chest when she was only weeks old. Attending my daughter’s matriculation ceremony as she began her college career as an eagle dipped and darted above the gathering. Sitting on the couch beside Grandmother in her recliner, reading to her in the low lamplight of her family room. Sitting with my mom during my grandmother’s last night on earth as I kept rereading Isaiah 40 aloud as my way of saying good-bye. Standing with my Dad, Stepmother, daughter, and other family members when I saw my paternal Mamaw take her last earthly breath.


     “And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn. Make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hands.”


The work, the deadlines, the requests, and the emails—all of that could wait. Maybe this is why Friday mass is so good for me.   In the same way I had sipped broth this week for my cold, perhaps mass was the soup for my soul– clearing brain fog—often brought on my loss of perspective rather than a cold.



**Afterthought not written in the newspaper edition of this:

As I waited with the Middle School students for our turn to exit from Friday mass, the same student with whom I had had the conversation at La Familigia, regarding On Eagles’ Wings, came down from the choir loft and walked straight to me, mouth stretched in a broad smile.

“Mrs. Hill, I thought of you the whole time I was singing.  I know I much you said you loved the song,” she exclaimed with twinkling eyes as she gave me a hug.

That hug and smile felt as if I were receiving a second helping of soup for my soul.




Spinning Our Life Song

          “It is true that I have had heartache and tragedy in my life. These are things none of us avoids. Suffering is the price of being alive.”—Judy Collins

          “Some problems are not readily solvable . . .You’re not entitled to pain relief any more than you’re entitled to happiness.”—Dr. John Loeser


It may come as no surprise; I have a knack for “being in my head.”   My thoughts can provide me with great comfort, imagination, as well as torment. In fact, my brain is often like a favorite scratched record replaying the same phrase until someone lifts the needle and moves it to another spot. The problem with a stuck record is that it most likely became scratched because it is a favorite tune played one too many times; and, therefore, in the enthusiastic desire to “hear it again,” the record is often handled a bit too roughly creating the nick that causes the needle to stick.


Likewise, the philosophical and physical notion of pain and suffering has been needling my grooved brain for the past year. I have observed this theme demonstrated in a wide array of scenarios.   From the physical pain of illness, aging, injury, disease, and so on; to the psychological pain that often manifests itself as physical pain, blurring the lines between the two, of addiction, stress, workload, depression, anxiety, and so forth, the sufferings and pain of others far and near to me cannot be ignored.


Simultaneously, the notion of passion has also been spinning a track around my mind. Over the past year or two, I have participated in several conversations with people who have decided to “pursue their passion” and make fairly dramatic mid-career and/or mid-life changes driven by their suffering. Furthermore, my husband and I have had copious conversations with our newly collegiate daughter, nephew, and their friends struggling with the pain of figuring out their unique passion, or their calling. These discussions have led to self-reflection regarding my own passions and pains. It was as if the sun has been gradually rising within me, shining light on the perception that, perhaps, pain and passion are intertwined; thus, dawning understanding that life cannot be fully expressed without experiencing both.


It is said that the word, passion, evolved from Late Latin passionem, “suffering, enduring,” which came from the Lain stem, pati, which means to “endure, undergo, and experience.” reveals a total of five definitions presently used for passion, two of which have several sub-definitions. Passion can therefore mean: the “sufferings of Christ”; an emotion distinguished from reason, such as anger, greed, desire, and conviction; ardent affection; strong devotion; sexual desire; or finally, an object of desire or deep interest.


There is a popular quote, “Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional,” which really makes a valid point. Life involves pain, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. Ask any mother, the pain of childbirth is real, but it is our passionate love for our child that pushes us through the labor; and, our pain is soon forgotten once that child is our arms.


In my continual passion to become a teacher, I have had to endure many painful evolutions, situations, and challenging years; but without those difficult times, I would not possess the same level of educational wisdom that I now enjoy. If I had simply chosen to avoid the pain of career change, I would have missed 30 years of a range of experiences that spans teaching every grade, K-12.


Likewise, as a writer, there are times, such as when trying to write this very piece, in which I am pained over words, thoughts, and ideas. I will write, delete, think, rewrite, read, delete, pause, think, and rewrite again, sometimes for hours over one paragraph or even a sentence, in order to best articulate what I hope will become a concise, meaningful piece worth sharing.

Would I like to avoid the pain and struggle? Heck, yes! Do I wish words flowed easily and swiftly? Absolutely! However, it is my passion that impels me to persist, endure, and undergo the transitory experience of pain in order to evolve, progress, and hopefully create a nutritional nugget worth sharing.


I recently conversed with a young person complaining about the years of study and schoolwork she faced over the next foreseeable future. She explained how much time school and extra-curricular activities took, leaving little time to relax. Could this pain she was experiencing be attributed to her own passionate work ethic that drives her to go above and beyond any given assignment?


Another person recently described to me, in great details, her physical pain; and yet, she fully confessed those very ailments were a result of her passion for nutritional choices that do not agree with her constitution. Furthermore, this acquaintance knew that those poor choices often stemmed from unhappiness, sadness, and frustration due to not living life in a manner she so desperately desired.


Likewise, I have bemoaned my own back injury. The pain and numbness were letting me know, something was wrong; perhaps my passion for activity needed addressed. Furthermore, throughout the healing process, I’ve had to embrace the pain as a gauge for what activity is or isn’t beneficial. If I had attempted to avoid pain by taking excessive painkillers, I would not only have potentially further damaged my spine, but also would not have learned to live more safely in tune with my body.


Perhaps, I was onto something when I began writing this piece. Like musical black vinyl, humans are grooved with feelings that must be played and heard by the needle of life. Often, it is in our passionate pursuits, we skip out of our God-given track, our life needle becomes stuck, and we feel immense pain. However, just as the stuck record of long ago was signaling an important message; pain is likewise communicating important messages. It often forces us to our knees for a reason. By attempting to avoid pain, we may be ignoring significant implications. And like that record, pain requires listening—deep, Divine listening to learn what we need to do in order to get back on track, creating our own beautiful life song.


Therefore, trying to avoid pain, I’ve concluded, is asking to avoid passion, and, ultimately, avoid life. Thus, I choose to live fully with the pain and passion—all the while praying Divine Providence will play His song through me.














Auberge D’Anjou in Petit-Rocher, New Brunswick, Canada

            “Coffee is a language in itself.”—Jackie Chan

It looked charming from the outside. I had been told that it served delicious coffee.


“The two-mile walk required to get here had better be worth the effort,” was all I could think as John and I entered through the beaded front entry.


The scent was heavenly. I was feeling hopeful. Several staff members warmly greeted us in French.


As my husband and I ordered our drinks, mocha for me, plain black coffee for him, I took in the environment. Beautiful and original artwork was tastefully hung throughout the dining area. A piano stood off in a corner area. Tables were arranged thoughtfully.  I noticed a bar area, not in use at the time, was located across from the counter in which food/drinks were ordered.


On my right was a chalkboard menu written in French.  Additionally,  there was also another menu to my left.  In front of me, below the cash register, was a glass case filled with a yummy array of foods–salads, yogurt parfaits, single-serving cakes, mini-pies, slices of quiche, muffins, and so forth.


The young man taking our order from behind the counter, Sebastian, was courteous and quickly switched to speaking English when he realized that we were Americans on vacation and, unfortunately, could not speak French.  In fact, Sebastian began to ask us numerous questions that were genuinely curious. What brought us to New Brunswick? Was this our first time visiting Auberge D’Anjou? Did we like Petit-Rocher? He was most engaging and encouraged us to come visit the café often. In the meantime, he told us to choose where we would like to sit, and he would bring us our coffees when it was ready.


John and I chose seats on the wrap-around veranda. It was a delightful day.  The bluebird sky had captured a few billowy-white clouds. There was a light breeze, and the temperature was quite comfortable, somewhere in the low 70s.   A few other diners were also outside; however, we were there at an in-between mealtime, so there were not many.


Momentarily, Sebastian served us our coffees—each cup freshly made. No cardboard cups and with plastic lids here. Rather, our coffees were served in beautiful, boldly colored mugs that begged for fingers to wrap around them.


My mocha was truly a work of art. Never before had I ever experienced coffee so caringly created and served. I almost felt guilty attempting to sip it, so I waited a moment in order to savor and appreciate the craftwork of the barista.   Later, to my surprise, she apologized for the mocha not turning out as beautifully as she had hoped! PLEEEEASE!!!


John and I sat, sipped our coffee, enjoyed quiet conversation, and soaked up what was shaping up to be a picture-perfect day. Sebastian appeared several times to check on us as well as answer any question we threw at him. When our coffee cups were finally empty, and the caffeine had fully kicked in, John and I continued on our walk around the harbor area of Petit-Rocher—just behind Auberge D’Anjou. In the end, John and I ultimately walked a total of five miles through this quaint, dear town.


Due to this positive experience, I returned, solo, to Auberge D’Anjou two more times during our stay in Petit-Rocher. Both times, I walked to and from the Café soaking in the French atmosphere and charming surroundings of Petit-Rocher. Also, I made it a point to try two different coffees: Cappuccino and a Latte. Much to my pleasant surprise, both of these coffees were just as tasty as my first mocha. Furthermore, both were created so picturesquely, I forced myself, once again,  to sit and savor their image before I began consuming the contents of my mug.


I had hoped to return one evening for dinner as one staff member, Sole, shared the fact that if I would call in advance, the kitchen would prepare a spectacular gluten-free entree, salad, and dessert—just for me. With great detail, Sole described several dinner delights that sounding mouth-wateringly tasty. Unfortunately, it did not work out, and I sadly never made it for dinner. That said, given my positive experience with the care to which the staff pours (pun-intended) into their coffee, I could only imagine how wonderful their food must be.


Therefore, if you are visiting, vacationing, or happen to live near Petit-Rocher, I highly recommend a visit to Auberge D’Anjou. Additionally, they also happen to be an Inn, making it a convenient place to stay and eat! Auberge D’Anjou is centrally located in the heart of town and is only one block away from the Petit-Rocher harbor area. If you stop in, tell them Steph simply sent you!




I Believe

          “We Believe”—Travis Ryan, Richie Fike, Matt Hooper

Usually it’s an exciting time in my life. I set new goals for improvement; adjust/tweak my instructional methods and curriculum; and, I see that my professional space (classroom) is physically prepared for a brand new school year. To be certain, I still did that this year, but not with the same vigor, verve, and vivacity of previous years.

    Preparing my  classroom space before school.


          “In this time of desperation; When all we know is doubt and fear.”

Perhaps, I was becoming burned out, I secretly wondered to myself. Maybe 30 years in one career is a long enough time span for any one person. Possibly, it was my age; after all, I am not that wide-eyed-fresh-out-of college-21-year-old teacher beginning her career at a rural Kentucky high school. Then again, that grey cloud of ambiguity might have had a great deal to do with the fact that my only daughter, the lovely being with whom my husband, John, and I have spent the last 18 years nurturing, protecting, as well as providing, was leaving us two weeks into our new school year (John is also a teacher.) and beginning her own journey as an adult in college.

Me, Madelyn, and John at Bethany College in July 2017 for her freshman orientation.


          “There is only one Foundation: We believe . . .we believe.”

 Nonetheless, I plodded through the professional motions well enough. I prepared for the new school year, as I always do, while simultaneously helping my daughter prime, plan, and pack for Bethany College. I juggled late July and early August days with tutoring students, tackling my classroom/curriculum for the new school year, and trekking repeatedly along US Route 60 stores with my daughter and her ever growing “gotta-get-this-for-college list.” All the while, the shadow clouds of uncertainty grew dark and dense, swirling alternately across my mind, heart, and soul like Rorschach inkblots.

The ever-growing list of “gotta-have-this-for-college” was real.


           “In this broken generation . . .When all is dark, You can help us . . .see.”

Normally, during the weeks leading up to the start of a new school year, I experience nightmares filled with ridiculous scenarios. For example, in one frequently occurring dream, I’m assigned to teach Kindergarten students again. I walk into a classroom that was once the gym, and see that it is filled with 60 five-year olds that I am expected to teach with no help in sight. Then, there is the dream in which I am assigned to teach high school students. My class is an old boiler room filled with 45 hormonal teen bodies that were kicked out of other schools; however, I am told, “I can handle them, because I have good discipline.”

When I saw this on Instagram, I had to insert it!


This year, however, there were no back-to-school nightmares; instead, my sleep was interrupted with numerous panic attacks throughout the night. Each time, I would wake in a fright with my heart hammering heavily, my mind randomly racing, and perspiration penetrating my nightclothes and sheets. What was wrong with me?

            “There is only one Salvation: We believe . . .we believe.”

 On the first day of school with students, I woke at my normal 4:00 am school day wake-up time; and by 4:50, I was headed toward a local gym with John for a cardio session on the elliptical machine. As I entered the facility, I could hear music blaring. Nothing unusual about that; and I was just about to insert my ear buds in order to listen, instead, to an audible book, when I recognized the song, “We Believe,” as performed by the Newsboys. Chills ran up my arms, in spite of the warm temperature outside.

I had planned to listen to an all-time classic & favorite because my 7th grade students would be reading this in my class this year . . .then, I heard the song, and had to listen to it first.


We believe in God the Father. We believe in Jesus Christ. We believe in the Holy Spirit . . .and He’s given us new Life.”

Later that morning, I knew that I would be attending mass with all of the students of our school.  “We Believe” is a song that we often sing during this school-wide church service.   Was this Divine Providence trying to communicate some hidden message to me, I wondered, as I began pedaling the elliptical, listening to the song?

Was Divine Providence sending me a message?


And in our weakness and temptations . . .We believe . . .we believe.”

 The ideal ending would be to write that, later, during mass, I sang along to this same song with my students, while simultaneously, a lightening bolt of realization zapped my heart and head; thus, making all right in Stephanie’s world. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always provide perfect endings. Instead, mass occurred without the Newsboys’ song, the school year began, and the cloud of vagueness persisted–though I was greatly cheered, or at the very least, distracted– by time spent with my students and the amazing staff with whom I work.

         Spending time with SJCS students and staff during solar eclipse of August 2017.


Let the lost be found and the dead be raised. In the here and now, let love invade.”

 Two weeks later, we moved our daughter to Bethany College; and with that life-change, a bit of my mom-heart broke. I was entering a new life phase, and I had a choice. I could wallow in my sadness, ignoring the natural progression of life; or, I could embrace the fact that John and I did exactly what we were supposed to do . . .give our daughter roots, then give her wings.”

Moving our daughter into her dorm at Bethany College two weeks into the start of the new school year.


Now we know Your love will never fail: We believe . . . we believe . . .”

 This past Friday, I sat in mass with all of the K-8 students of St. Joseph Catholic School. The sun was glinting through the stained glass, and Father Dean stated to all, “Did you know that you are uniquely made by God?” Why those specific words should get me, I do not know, but they did.

         A few of the students who attended mass with me on that Friday.

I did not hear anything else he said (Sorry, Father Dean.) because I became overwhelmed with emotion. I am more than just a mom. I am a teacher. I am writer. I am daughter. I am a wife. I am a sister, an aunt, a friend, a co-worker; and, I AM A CHILD of GOD. WOW! I have an opportunity to make a difference, not just in my daughter’s life, but also in the life of all others with whom I encounter, spend time, and/or share my writings.



          “So let our faith be more than anthems—Greater than the songs we sing.”


Later, during this service, the fourth mass of the school year, we finally sang, “We believe;” and, I was reminded, I believe.











Miscou Island is a Hidden Jewel of Acadian Coastal New Brunswick

“One of the single most beautiful spots in the world.” –2010 Society of American Travel Writers statement about Miscou Island when awarding the island with a Phoenix Award

“You should definitely go to Miscou Island. The lighthouse is beautiful, and the beaches are private for miles and miles.”

John, my husband, and I were sitting at the bar of Joey’s Pub and Eatery in Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada, this past July, eating dinner and talking with waiter/bar-tender, Chris. We were nearing the last couple of days of what had been a delightful two-week stay.   In the course of our conversation, Chris asked if we had ever visited Miscou Island. It was after this engaging dialogue that we decided to drive nearly two hours in order to discover this geographical treasure.

Due to its proximity to Prince Edward Island, home of Anne of the Green Gables book series author, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Nova Scotia, a whale-watching destination, New Brunswick is often written off as a “go-through” province. In fact, our family discovered this jewel-of-a-province while driving to PEI. However, New Brunswick, as we have since discovered, is, and should be considered, a destination unto itself. In fact, Miscou Island, as we learned, is one more reason to vacation in New Brunswick.

After a delightful breakfast at 748 Restaurant, John and I, along with our daughter and friend, headed down the scenic Acadian Coastal Drive. Traversing this route, we made our through several towns and sites we had previously visited including: Grande Anse with its beautiful beaches and Pope’s Museum; the Village Historique Acadien, a historical reconstruction of more than 40 buildings that portrays Acadian life between 1770 and 1949; the quaint, French-speaking town of Caraquet, considered the capital of Acadia as it roots are deeply steeped in the Acadian families who settled there after forced deportation by the British in 1755; and Shippagan, home of the beloved New Brunswick Aquarium and Marine Center (a great place to see blue lobsters!).

Finally, we crossed a drawbridge, built in the 1950s, connecting Shippagan to Lameque Island, a New Brunswick location we had never before visited. Aboriginal people from the Micmac nation originally settled and named it. Later, French explorer, Nicolas Denys, established a trading post on the island around 1645, but soon abandoned it.   A little over 100 years later, the first permanent settlers began arriving on the island. Then, after the British deportation of 1755-1763, five families from PEI make Lameque Island their home in the 1780s. In fact, two of those original communities, Lameque and Sainte-Marie-Saint-Raphael, still remain. Currently, there are approximately 6,000 residents making a living on this picturesque island working in industries such as fishing and peat moss as well as the recently established windmill industry—which we drove past on our way to Miscou Island.

We left Lameque Island and crossed over to Miscou Island via the 2,000-meter Miscou Island Bridge, which opened in 1996 and replaced a cable-ferry. Both Lameque and Miscou Islands separate the Bay of Chaleur from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Furthermore, Miscou, interestingly enough, is actually formed by a group of islands attached by bays.

Its name, also given by the Micmac people who used the island during hunting and fishing season, means “low wetlands.” Later, Jacques Cartier first explored it in 1534, and the island became a fishing base the same year. In fact, Miscou’s main industry still remains fishing for its nearly 600 full-time residents. However, unlike Lameque, Miscou’s numerous peat beds have not been harvested and remain in their natural state—making Miscou a must see location in the fall when its vast peat bogs become a vibrant scarlet red.

Traveling along the Route 113, the main road that runs the length of the entire island, we saw numerous historical, wildlife viewing, and scenic sites. Of first note, was the charming wharf area providing shelter to nearly 60 boats that fish for lobster, herring, crab, and scallops as well as La Terrase a Steve, an open-air eatery that claims to serve lobster 14 ways. As we drove past the eatery overlooking the harbor, we couldn’t help but notice its open-air picnic tables were filled with diners enjoying this local favorite.

Continuing along our route, we drove past charming old churches, including the site of New Brunswick’s first established church. Additionally, we saw the site where a Russian plane made an emergency crash landing in 1939 in an attempt to fly nonstop from Moscow to New York. Continuing our winding drive through the exquisite bayside, we drove past access roads to “official” public beach areas that offer restrooms and changing facilities, and instead opted to stop at two different boardwalks: Lake Fry Observatory, known for bird-watching (over 265 bird species have been recorded on Miscou); and, Peatland Path, a spectacular stretch of boardwalk built over colorful, unspoiled, and natural peat land. In fact, it was on Peatland Path that we saw an actual a carnivorous plant, the pitcher plant, up close!


Finally we arrived at Miscou Lighthouse, a National Historic Sight of Canada. It was built in 1856 and is located at the most northern point of the island. This octagonal wooden structure, built with hand-sawn timbers, originally measured 74 feet from its base to top, but was extended to 80 feet in 1903. It is housed with a red Fresnel lens at the top.


As we entered the lighthouse, workers warmly greeted us. We paid our entry fee and began climbing the numerous steps, stopping at each level to take in the views as well as peruse the photos and educational exhibits. Eventually, we reached the top and were rewarded with panoramic views of the seemingly endless miles of expansive coastal beach beckoning us to explore. We heeded the call.


Leaving the lighthouse, we strolled along the nearby empty stretch of beach. It was littered with beautiful rocks, shells, driftwood, and our favorite, colorful sea glass. The day could not have been more clear and beautiful, with vividly cobalt blue skies dotted with pure white cotton fluff clouds above, and sparkly blue-green gulf waters beside us. Though the wind was bracing, the memories we created along the shores of Miscou Island on that July day, and for that matter during those two wonderful weeks in coastal New Brunswick, will forever warm my heart.

I highly encourage a visit, not only to Miscou Island, but also to New Brunswick and the inviting Acadian Coastal drive. It is rich with a unique history, steeped in faith, full of vibrant and gracious people, and possesses an unspoiled, picturesque, rocky shoreline with plenty of space for all of your favorite beach/water activities.