THE SUMMER BEFORE THE STORM
A Retelling in Full Color
I. THE VALLEY OF LIGHT
Long before he ever set foot in the desert, before the furnace winds of Coachella tested every spiritual sinew he possessed, Calvin Kid spent one luminous summer in Jackson Hole—a place where mountains carved the sky into cathedral spires, and mornings arrived with a ceremonial quiet that seemed older than human memory.
He came with his golden retriever, Lola—three years old, absurdly energetic, and radiating that uncomplicated joy of a creature convinced the world was made exclusively for her to explore. She would bolt into the sagebrush each morning as if chasing invisible angels, bounding with such speed and devotion that CK often wondered how her heart didn’t burst from pure optimism.
They stayed in the sprawling home overlooking the Tetons, a house owned by Aunt Martha and Uncle Warren—who, through a mixture of foresight and fortune, purchased it long before Jackson’s real-estate prices ascended into the stratosphere. Martha was one of the six daughters of Leo and Helen Peters, the Grand Rapids family behind Butterball Farms. CK had grown up hearing the stories—how Leo, equal parts innovator and stubborn Dutch patriarch, turned a small butter operation into a regional empire. To CK the stories were half-myth, half-inheritance, but that summer, with the Tetons swallowing the horizon and the sky turning purple each night, those family legends took on an almost biblical glow.
It was Martha who kept insisting:
“Come. Stay. Think. Pray. Rest. The world is loud everywhere else. Here you can hear yourself.”
So he came. And in Jackson, he did hear himself—at least for a little while.
II. THE HOUSE OF CHARACTERS
He wasn’t alone in the mountain house. Far from it.
Cousin Todd was there, whose dry humor could slice through any moment of solemnity. Eric was there too, along with his new wife, Katcha—straight from Russia, with a voice soft as snowfall and a laugh that could shake loose even the most stubborn sadness. She spoke English with deliberate precision, turning each sentence into a small work of art.
And then there was Caitlyn, the gifted bass player who floated between professional orchestras like a wandering virtuoso—Chicago in the fall, Seattle in the winter, Jackson Symphony in the summer. Her instrument lived in the corner, a towering, wooden sentinel. Sometimes at dusk she would practice on the back deck, her music drifting into the valley like a benediction.
The house felt alive. People cooking, arguing, laughing, dreaming out loud. CK fit into this strange family constellation with ease, feeling the rare comfort of belonging without explanation.
Some evenings they all gathered on the deck to watch the hot-air balloons launch from the valley floor, their slow, majestic rising a ceremony CK learned to savor. On other nights, they drove into town for a simple meal, or listened to Caitlyn rehearse, or sat around discussing missionary work, politics, theology, or whether golden retrievers had the highest IQ of all dogs (Lola’s antics frequently fueled the debate).
It was, in every sense, a golden time.
III. FRIENDS WHO BROUGHT MORE LIGHT
In the middle of that summer, two friends visited CK: Amy J. and Rachel S.
Amy, worldly and tuned to the deeper frequencies of life, had a way of speaking that made you feel seen. Rachel, equally brilliant and grounded, carried a calmness that made every space feel gentler. CK admired both—deeply—and their visit became a bright chapter within an already radiant season.
The three of them hiked long trails through the Tetons, walked along the Snake River, and drove out to the open fields where the Milky Way appeared with a clarity impossible near cities. They talked about travel, calling, courage, relationships, and the strange, precarious phase of being young but expected to carry adult-sized dreams.
For CK, their presence was grounding—an emotional compass during a summer when he was trying to discern the next step in a life he hoped would matter.
Amy and Rachel left Jackson with hugs and promises to stay in touch, but their visit remained with him long after their departure—a reminder that he was surrounded by good people, even as he stood on the cusp of decisions that would push him into far harsher terrain.
IV. THE PATH TO HUNGARY
The plan—at least as CK believed—was to take a missionary teacher position in Hungary.
He had been preparing for it for months. The idea of teaching English overseas appealed to his sense of vocation: a blend of service, culture, adventure, and ministry. Hungary, still reshaping itself in the years after communism’s fall, felt like fertile ground for hope.
But the job came with a catch:
No salary.
All living expenses provided, but the burden of fundraising—writing letters, visiting churches, convincing donors—fell squarely on him.
And CK, whose student loans hovered overhead like desert vultures, couldn’t ignore the practical weight of reality. He wanted to go—but he also wanted to be responsible, to pay off debts, to avoid living financially underwater.
So while Hungary beckoned with spiritual promise, it also whispered of struggle.
He prayed. He waited. He stayed in Jackson hoping clarity would arrive.
And then, one afternoon, clarity came in the form of a phone call.
V. THE CALL FROM THE DESERT
It was Jim Zoetewey calling—a friend, a teacher already working in Coachella.
“CK,” he said, “we have an opening. English teacher. Full salary. Benefits. You’d be great here.”
Coachella.
The name meant nothing to CK at the time. Just a region—thermal, agricultural, low-income, a thousand miles from anything familiar. But Jim’s tone carried urgency, almost pleading.
“You should at least drive out,” Jim said. “Come see it. We need you.”
CK glanced out the window. In the distance, the Tetons looked like something God had carved on the seventh day when He wasn’t quite ready to rest. Lola dozed at his feet. Caitlyn was rehearsing softly in the next room. The house smelled like coffee and pine and safety.
Why leave this?
Why walk into the unknown?
Why turn from a summer of peace toward something untested?
But CK also felt something unmistakable—a pull, a nudge, an inconvenient sense that maybe this was the next step. Not Hungary. Not Europe. Not the clean, romantic image of missionary service abroad.
Maybe the mission field was domestic.
Maybe it was dusty and hot and chaotic.
Maybe it was a public school in the desert where he would be expected not to preach, but simply to be—to live out presence evangelism, quiet witness, integrity in motion.
“Okay,” CK said into the phone. “I’ll drive out.”
VI. THE RED HONDA AND THE OPEN ROAD
The next morning he packed up his 1986 red Honda Prelude—still in beautiful condition, shining like a polished apple in the sun. It had a sunroof that caught the wind just right, making the interior feel like a moving observatory.
Lola hopped inside eagerly, tail sweeping arcs across the air.
He hugged everyone goodbye—Todd with a joke, Caitlyn with a long musician’s gaze, Eric and Katcha with warmth, and Aunt Martha with her mixture of maternal concern and adventurous encouragement.
Then he drove away from Jackson Hole.
He watched the Tetons shrink in his rearview mirror until they became faint, jagged memories on the horizon—symbols of peace he didn’t yet realize he would spend months longing to return to.
The road stretched ahead.
Long. Straight. Sunlit.
Full of promise and threat in equal measure.
He didn’t know he was leaving paradise.
He didn’t know he was heading toward a crucible that would test every ideal he held about faith, teaching, justice, and human resilience.
He only knew he was moving forward, because that’s what you do when the world opens a door and whispers, “Walk.”
This was the prologue—
before the desert
before the storm
before he would be forged into something stronger and far more complicated
than the boy who left Jackson Hole.
Everything ahead was unknown.
But the summer he left behind remained a memory of light—
a mountaintop calm before the coming fire.
If you'd like, I can continue immediately with the next re-telling chapter: CK’s arrival in Coachella — The Baptism by Fire.
