Flares Over Cook Inlet (And In My Soul)

In winter, something shifts.

The sunsets linger longer. The sky pulls your eyes upward. Light hits the water differently when the sun stays low on the horizon, bending and refracting in ways you never see in summer. There’s a clarity to winter—details you can’t normally see suddenly come into focus.

From our house, we can see dozens of miles across Cook Inlet. On clear days, the mountains feel close enough to touch. Mount Spurr to the north, along the edge of the Tordrillo range. Redoubt and Iliamna to the west. And sometimes, way off in the distance to the south, Mount Augustine. All of them volcanoes. All of them alive in their own quiet way. Some of them breathing out steam on cold days.

One night, standing at the window, watching darkness settle over the water, I noticed something that stopped me cold.

Flares.

Not just one—but several. Burning bright over the inlet.

My body reacted before my mind caught up. Adrenaline. A tightening in my chest. I grabbed my phone and called emergency services immediately. Because if you live on the water, you don’t ignore flares. You don’t debate it. You call it in.

After a while on hold, I was told everything was okay. The U.S. Air Force had notified them of training missions. Routine. Controlled. No emergency.

We’ve seen these flares dozens of times since. Every time they happen, social media lights up with questions. “Did anyone else see that?” “What’s going on out there?” And even now, knowing exactly what they are, I still feel that jolt in my body. That quiet question: What if this time is different?

There was a chapter in my life when I hated metaphors. Back in high school—English class in the 90s—we were always asked to hunt them down. Symbols. Imagery. Meaning hidden beneath the surface. I didn’t care for it then.

Now, I can’t escape them.

Life has a way of teaching you in stories, whether you want it to or not. And Alaska—raw, rugged, honest Alaska—has become one of the ways I make sense of myself, my limits, my hopes, and my failures.

These flares have stayed with me.

Because flares are supposed to mean something. They’re meant to signal danger. A cry for help. An emergency that can’t be ignored.

But these ones? They burn bright for a moment… and fade into the dark.

And that’s what made me realize how easy it is to get used to warning signs.

For years, my life was filled to the edges—and beyond. A constant drive to improve. To produce. To be effective. To carry responsibility well. I carried my own grief, but also the hidden grief of others. I walked with people through unimaginable loss. Through death. Through heartbreak. And I told myself it was just part of the calling. Part of the job. Part of who I was.

The flares were going off everywhere.

• In my body.
• In my mind.
• In my soul.

Warning signs of something unsustainable. But I ignored them.

I had grown so used to the signals that they stopped feeling urgent. I powered through. Pushed harder. Tightened my grip. Because letting go felt like losing my identity.

And when the real emergency came—when my heart and body sent up unmistakable flares—I ignored those too. For far too long.

And if you follow Jesus, I’d love to hear how that’s shaping your spiritual life too.

Because flares aren’t meant to be ignored.

They’re invitations to stop, to listen, and maybe—before it’s an emergency—to ask for help.

May I come to always remember what Jesse Eubanks writes in his book How We Relate: Understanding God Yourself, and Others through the Enneagram,

“He [Jesus] came to give you the freedom, security, and identity your soul has searched for.”

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