Providence
We came to Fredericksburg to get away. After months in which the ordinary trials of life had seemed anything but ordinary, Ted and I needed a few days in the Hill Country. I especially needed some distance from what has been happening next door to our home in Terrell Hills. For twenty years we have made that house our home, assuming it was where we would grow old. We did not come to Fredericksburg intending to solve anything. We wanted some quiet, good food, cocktails, cigars, a massage, and time enough to think.
Instead, we walked into a house filled with names.
A Gillespie County plaque on the cabin reads:
Established by Lori and Michael Carew in 2021, The Outpost is constructed from various historical, military, and first responder buildings from all across Texas. The metal, timber, and stone of this cabin stands as a resolute testament to those who sacrificed so much for our great country. All gave some, and some gave all.¹
Lori and Michael have filled The Outpost with military and Texas history, but the people represented here do not disappear into memorabilia. Darline T. Wagner served in the Navy WAVES during World War II, and her display preserves her photograph, service history, medals and New Testament. Oveta Culp Hobby is here, as are Chester Nimitz and Dorie Miller. There are uniforms, telegrams, patches, folded American flags and the histories of first responders. My own father was a corporal in the Army during the Korean War, and military service runs through our extended family. We had walked into another family’s history and kept encountering our own.
Even the combat boots hanging from the rafters became part of that discovery. Initially, I did not like them. With so much military memorabilia around us, I wondered whether the boots were the bridge too far, the point where remembrance became décor. Then Ted and I looked more closely and learned about the military tradition associated with leaving boots at the completion of deployments and service. The boots had identifying tags, including a pair from Operation Desert Storm. I had looked, questioned, learned something and changed my mind. That became part of the experience of the house itself.
Then there was September 11. Hanging on one wall is a pentagon-shaped 9/11 shadow box bringing together the Department of Defense, police, emergency medical service, nursing and United Airlines. We had just passed the twenty-fifth anniversary of 9/11, and we were living through the 250th anniversary year of our country. Looking at the display, Ted observed that 9/11 was when first responders really began getting their due respect. Hundreds died that day. They were going in when everyone else was going out. Once again, the history surrounding us had become personal.
All of this may make the house sound solemn. Walk outside.
The place is flooded with life. Deer and bunnies wander through. Hummingbirds announce themselves with that unmistakable hum. Cardinals seem to own the place. One mature male and two immature cardinals came within two or three feet of me, the youngsters still sporting dark beaks while their red feathers begin to come through. I also learned that cardinals hiss at each other. They hiss, chase and quarrel, while the hummingbirds buzz around them. I had trouble concentrating on my Rosary one morning because God’s creation was making such a glorious racket.
There are enormous trees, geraniums, a Texas-star gate and a path looking down into a little valley. Dew catches the morning light like diamonds. Ted emptied the leftover ice from our Igloo into the birdbath rather than waste the water. The birds had already been using it, so they were treated to premium reverse-osmosis water. Only the best for the Fredericksburg cardinals.
Inside, I found a leather journal and pen left for guests. That stopped me too. Sara and I have been working on a ladies’ journal project, while other writing has required the kind of deep concentration increasingly difficult to find at home. Yet here I was, finally surrounded by quiet, with a leather journal sitting in front of me. By then the connections were accumulating: my father’s military service, Darline Wagner’s New Testament, the boots, 9/11, our country’s 250th anniversary, the journal, our home, the birds and the quiet. I did not need to force them together. I needed to notice them.
Before our massage, I remembered something Father Ed has taught us. After we have petitioned the Lord, we need to thank Him, not merely when everything has been resolved as we hoped, but while He is acting. That was when I finally found the word for what I had been seeing throughout these days.
Providence.
Lori and Michael could not have known that the daughter of a Korean War veteran would stay here, that Darline’s New Testament would catch my attention, that Ted and I had recently been reflecting on 9/11, that Sara and I were working on a journal project, or that we had arrived needing quiet enough to think and pray. They could not have arranged those correspondences.
That is why I keep returning to the names. Darline T. Wagner. Oveta Culp Hobby. Chester Nimitz. Dorie Miller. They were people, not themes. Somebody thought their stories were worth preserving. For a few days, Ted and I were allowed to live among those stories while carrying our own.
Lori and Michael, thank you for keeping the names, for preserving the stories, and for creating a place where a Bible can sit beside a uniform, an American flag is straightened because it deserves to be straightened, and God’s creation makes enough racket outside to interrupt a Rosary.
You prepared the house. You could not have arranged the meeting.
That belongs to Providence.
¹ “The Outpost,” commemorative plaque, Gillespie County, Fredericksburg, TX, 2021. Text transcribed from the plaque affixed to the cabin, September 2026.