Trying some small stones

There is a challenge by two writers at "River of Stones" for people to write a "small stone" every day for the month of January.  Their definition of a small stone is a "very small piece of writing that precisely captures a fully engaged moment."  It's a great invitation.  It can be a gift to pay attention to the present when we live in a culture that demands we be doing several things at once or thinking ahead to the next steps to come.  To commit to writing something down is not only a way of appreciating that moment but a welcome discipline to notice more carefully what is freely around us.

Since winter is not my favorite time, too often I just want to get through January---not stop and notice it!  Besides, I have a busy month coming up, and I wonder if this small stone writing will encourage me from becoming too frazzled. I'm told that Luther said the more work we have to do, the more time we need to pray.  For me, I think the small stones can be a way of praying and appreciating.

So you can hold me accountable and check here everyday (!!!) for a small stone and possibly another tidbit or two.  Maybe you would want to try it too. One doesn't have to be a "writer" to do this.  Feel free to post your small stones in the "comments." Since this blog is primarily about walking the way of Christ together, I hope that pausing to write and read the small stones will contribute to that purpose as well.

Meanwhile there are more stories from the journal about the 2008 D.C. to Pittsburgh walk, so they will be interspersed among the January river of stones.

Chapter 13: A Patch of Grass

From my journal dated Tuesday, April 29, 2008, as  I walked with my dog Chester from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.

Today I am walking from Fort Frederick to Hancock, MD.  Dark clouds race overhead, and a biting wind confronts us as we start.  I am glad for my winter hat and layers of shirt, fleece and jacket, but I wish I had also brought gloves.  The canal on my right has stretched open into a beautiful lake, but now the wind whips across the open water, so I tuck my head deep into my jacket hood and don’t bother to look at our surroundings.  Instead Chester and I set a hurried pace and push through the cold gusts.

After a couple of miles the towpath leaves the lake and enters a wooded area where the trees provide some protection from the wind.  The clouds become more scattered, so the bright sun has a chance to break through and warm things up.  My head finally emerges from the hood and hat.  Our stride slows down. I begin to notice our surroundings again as we pass through a huge gathering of goldfinches.  Hundreds of yellow flashes flit, dart, sing, and whistle in the upper branches.  Never have I heard and seen so many in one place.  Are they celebrating a glimpse of sun after yesterday’s rain?  Or maybe this is courting season, and these winged creatures gather to see who’s who and unattached.  Whatever is going on, it is quite a commotion.

Ironic, since today I am learning John 6 about large crowds who followed Jesus and were apparently more persistent than the goldfinch crowds who basically ignore me passing under them.  Jesus climbed up a mountain with his disciples to avoid the mass of people, but the crowd followed him there too.  So Jesus asked Philip,

“Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”   He said this to test him, for he himself already knew what he was going to do.  Philip answered him, “Six months wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.”  One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they among so many people?”  Jesus said, “Tell the people to sit down.”  Now there was a great deal of grass in the place.  So they sat down, about five thousand in all. (John 6.5-10)

It is the comment about the “great deal of grass” that gets my interest.  I wonder why the writer bothers to mentions it.  Was it because finding enough grass for a crowd to sit on was so unusual in a dry climate?  If so, that is exactly my problem now and has been for the last fifty miles.  There is so little grass for a dog and a person to sit down on along the towpath!  I can't stop whenever I feel like it.  Except for unusual places like the lake this morning, one side of the towpath has a short slope down to the boggy canal's remnants with the possibility of lurking snapping turtles.  On the other side of the trail is the swollen river, sometimes separated from where I am walking by flooded wetland.  Along the towpath itself, the ground is muddy from the recent rains.  There are few dry places to sit down: no large stones because the nature of a canal towpath is that all the stones have been removed.  As for nearby tree trunks to lean against or logs to sit on,  they inevitably have poison ivy growing on or around them, and I am terribly allergic.  The primitive campsites along the trail, spaced every six to eight miles, have a guaranteed picnic table, but sometimes my body simply can't wait that long for a rest.  I have therefore been desperate enough to plop right in the middle of the towpath--backpack,dog and all.  That’s rather dangerous; one must always be on guard for a bicyclist speeding into the picture.  So what I really hope for is to come upon  one of the old canal locks along the historic trail.  The park service keeps many of them cleared of weeds, and their old stonework and grassy patches are a delight for tired legs and a plodding dog.  Maybe there's one around the next bend I keep telling my tired self, mile after mile.

Today, after an especially long stretch of walking, we reach a canal lock just in time, or close enough, to declare lunch.  This lock is not even labeled with the usual historical sign marker and is in more disrepair than others.  But a small patch of thick grass is mowed and free of the dreaded ivy.   I slip the pack off my shoulders to rest my aching back.  We both, dog and human, stretch out in the warm, sun-dried grass and, like the turtles on fallen logs in the canal nearby, let our bodies soak in the brightness from above.  The smell of  sweet, spring greenness rises from the ground.  Eventually I rummage through my pack and we eat: for me, the usual peanut butter sandwich, apple and chocolate snack bar; for Chester, a hard-boiled egg that disappears in three seconds.  We both share some crunchy carrots.

Meanwhile, I keep reading about the grassy mountainside near the Sea of Galilee where the people were seated, tired out from their successful search for Jesus.  Their hungry bodies were fed with a little boy’s lunch of bread and fish that, in the hands of Jesus, became enough for all of them.  Their meal was an unexpected gift after their long walk.  I carry my own lunch rather than rely on a trail-side miracle; but for me, it is these rare, grassy patches along the way that are the hoped-for gift.  When I turn aside to eat and rest, I also notice the particular crowd of growing things around.  Today it is a beetle, a woodpecker, tiny redbud blossoms, a robin, frog, fly, violet and dandelion.

I suddenly realize that my life has become much simpler if collapsing on a patch of mowed grass can feel like a generous gift, if lunch becomes a pause to delight in this abundant, crowded creation.  But, of course Jesus did say, "I came that they may life, and have it abundantly." (John 10.10-11)

And so this pilgrim prays:   I don't just thank you for grass, but I thank you that I know the grass is a gift from you.  I don't just thank you for my life, but that I know that my life is a gift from you.  I not only thank you for this pilgrimage walk, but that you yourself are on this walk with me, and with all of us everyday.

Chapter 12: Between a rock and a water place

This is a continuation from my journal of on sabbatical pilgrimage on the canal trail from D.C. to Pittsburgh while memorizing the gospel of John.  It is April 2008.

Last night our camping trailer was pounded by a  rain storm, so today I am resigned to slosh through puddles and muck.  I will be working on John 5...still.  The last part of this chapter is not easy to learn by heart.  A wet walk and a fuzzy memory will make for a great challenge.  I drink an extra cup of morning tea before leaving.

Chester and I are skipping over a short section of the towpath, several miles in length, which is impassible.  This portion of the towpath has been totally washed away after years of flooding, and the park service has not tried to rebuild it.  The bikes now use a road detour which Rick and I checked out yesterday.  The detour road is winding and narrow with unmowed shoulders and is frequented by fast cars that whip the tall grass.  Concerned about safety, we have decided that Chester and I won't walk the detour, and this morning I start at a location where a sign announces the C&O towpath again.  However, along with the posted sign comes a warning: this section is partially restored but is still unsafe for bicycles.  The sign advises all bikers to continue on another extended road detour.  There is also a  warning for hikers: the trail is impassible in high water.

So, I wonder, how high is “high water?”  This morning the Potomac, a stone’s throw from the sign, is still running high from all the rain of the previous week.  I listen to its swift, swishing currents and look across its muddy swirls and flooded banks to the far side.  It is formidable in its present condition.  Drifting quickly by, a cormorant stands at attention a floating log.  In the rush of the river, his makeshift raft will arrive back at Dam 4 in only about ten minutes, and then his ride will be over in a tumbling splash.

In spite of the sign’s warning about the danger of the trail in high water, Chester and I start out.  I know if the trail goes under water, I can always turn back since I am leaving my car parked here at this entrance.  Yet I find it hard to believe there could be a problem.  For the last eighty miles the towpath  has always been raised well above the Potomac’s flood line.  Besides, I’ve done enough hiking to know that whenever there is a major obstacle on a main trail, undeterred hikers usually have worn  their own unauthorized path around the problem in spite of signs.  I ignore the warning in spite of the flooded river and start out.

After five minutes on the trail, however, I grow increasingly uneasy.  Here there is no canal on my right anymore because for these next few miles, as the guide book points out, the boats use to switch over and travel in the river itself since this section is deep with no rapids and rocks.  The boats, however, were still towed from the towpath.  So that means on my near left the towpath has to hug closer to the surging, rain-choked river than it ever has in the previous miles.  The river, in fact, is fingering the very brim of the path, no trees or bushes in between.  Meanwhile, instead of an abandoned canal ditch on my right, there is now a  sheer rock face that is unclimbable.  The trail has become so narrow in this spot that Chester could stand on the trail and drink from the raging river while I lean against the wet-slick cliff on the other side.  I dare not let him near the strong current, so he must content himself with licking at puddles. The sound of the river’s groaning echoes off the rocks, and the rock wall then whispers its hissing fury back into my other ear.  The river’s roar in stereo!

Walking around a bend, it gets worse.  There is a thick silt covering large patches of the stone path.  The towpath must have flooded here only a few days earlier during the worst of the rains.

I stop to consider the situation and stare at the utter power of the river within inches of my feet.  Because of the rain last night, the river is surely on the rise again.  If it rises any more this morning, an educated guess says the towpath will be under water.  With the cliff on my right, there is nowhere to climb out to safe ground.  In looking through the trail guides last night, I could not find any information  about the trail for these next seven miles.  What is up ahead?  I don't know?  Will the cliff continue the whole way like this?  Will the path stay low, dipping within inches of the Potomac?  If so, the trail will be too dangerous to continue in another hour.  That means if I then come to another spot where the towpath is flooded and have to turn around, I may not be able to get back across this silty spot either and could be stranded.

I do not have the gift of flying like the cormorant, and I would rather not risk floating on a log.  So this, I must now admit, is why the sign warned hikers about high water.  Common sense finally wins the day, and I decide to turn around, feeling defeated, like I have failed some kind of  test.  But first, I bargain with myself, give me five more minutes.  Give me enough time to walk just a little farther, my stubbornness complains.  In spite of the globs of mud on the path,  I’ve been noticing interesting caves (which I can’t get to) in the crevices of the rocks up above.  If nothing else, with the flood and the cliffs and the caves, it is a fascinating stretch of towpath, and I am busy snatching images with my camera in spite of my nervousness.

Four minutes and 45 seconds later, I am rounding what I intend to be my last bend of rock and am skating through one last stretch of river clay, when a man and a dog come walking toward me.  He is coming from the direction of whatever dark unknown lies ahead.  Chester’s ears perk up and his body tenses.  He is suspicious of male strangers and particularly of black dogs, and here are both in one package.  I distract Chester with a treat in my hand.  This is my opportunity to get some information, so with our dogs barking at each other, I ask the walker about the trail he has just come from.  He smiles and says that we are definitely in the worst part of the trail right here.  He has walked four miles in, and in only another half mile the walking improves greatly.  The towpath, he tells me, rises again well above the river. This is the worst part, he assures me again.   I thank him with a sense of relief and return to treading silt, but now with a determination to keep going.

 As I struggle for balance, I remember how Joyce Rupp wrote in Walking in a Relaxed Manner about unexpected “angels” who, in the guise of strangers, show up just when needed to give pilgrims direction along the way.  Is it a  mere coincidence that this man and dog come just when I need guidance about what is up ahead?  How  encouraging his words are, enough to take away my anxiety and fear of the unknown, enough to give me good reason not to turn back.  So is it luck?  Or were they unwitting messengers of God?  I murmur a prayer of thanks, assuming the latter, and Chester and I continue.  My shoes and his paws are coated in clay by now, but the mess seems an insignificant inconvenience for the opportunity to experience the wildness of this river, sucking at anything unanchored, so deadly in flood stage, but so beautifully mesmerizing.  Soon, as the stranger informed us, the towpath climbs again well above the river, and the remnants of the canal return on the right.

In the evening, I reflect on the day.  I needed the stranger's words to tell me I could keep walking safely.  In the gospel of John today, the lame man by the pool was also changed by the words of a stranger.  In his case the stranger was Jesus telling him to get up; take up his mat and walk.  In my case I am grateful for what I suspect is the Lord's timing in sending someone to point the way to walk safely.  After all, while reading John it certainly has felt like the risen Christ has been silently walking with me as an unseen, ever-present guide.  Who's to say the stranger couldn't be God's messenger in disguise!

Chapter 11: The pawpaw lady

This is the continuation from my journal of April 25, 2008, while walking from D.C. to Pittsburgh and learning the gospel of John by heart.  I am walking the canal trail along the Potomac river.

I pause walking, captivated for a moment by a band of white lacework bordering the opposite side of the Potomac.  It is the skeletal bark of sycamore branches gleaming in the morning sun, and so I reach for my camera.

While I am concentrating on framing the scene,  a woman with a large surly dog approaches and stands respectfully about twenty feet away.  I can sense my dog Chester’s nerves zinging as her own dog barks and whines to be allowed to rush and inspect us.  Without introduction or greeting she hold him tightly on a leash and simply states, “Those are pawpaw flowers on that tree.”

She must think I am focusing the camera, not at the sycamore trees across the river, but on the small twiggy plant directly in front of me that could only be called a puny tree or a leggy bush.  It looks like it has a few shriveled, dry leaves clinging from the winter on it.  The woman seems not to notice the frantic tugging of her dog, but continues calmly to explain, “Each flower has a tiny fruit in it  that grows into something  like a banana.  I’ve seen the ripe pawpaws in the fall when they can be eaten.”

I'm familiar with the name "pawpaw."  It is a famous tunnel sixty miles ahead on the canal trail near the town of Paw Paw, West Virginia.  I also grew up knowing the child’s song about “pickin’ up pawpaws, put em in your pocket,” although I never knew what pawpaws were or why anyone would want to collect them.

“Aren’t these blossoms  beautiful?" she marvels.  "This is the first time I have actually seen them.”

I look closer at what I had thought were shriveled leaves and see that they are actually little flowers.  I would never have noticed them if she had not pointed them out. The pawpaw lady then begins to walk on by us while her dog strains to jump at Chester, who is dutifully mirroring the bristly behavior.

Excuse my dog,” she says.  “He’s just a pound puppy I found.”  Then the pawpaw lady and her over-eager “puppy” disappear down the trail.  But because of her witness to an unusual flower, a delight she just couldn’t help sharing, I am left to admire something new.  I pull a slender branch down to eye level.  How often am I so focused on looking at something in the distance, that I miss the importance of what is in front of my nose?   Here each deep maroon blossom, about the size of an acorn, has six petals curved protectingly around a tiny green bead, the future pawpaw.  She’s right; it is a marvel.  As I start walking again, I keep my eyes focused on branches closer to the path and, sure enough, I discover frequent pawpaw trees.  

The pawpaw lady reminds me of John the baptizer in John's gospel.  He was not a witness to pawpaws on the trail, but he was witness to the light of the world,  Jesus.  His problem was that people looking for the messiah had their eyes fixed on distant Jerusalem; they expected the kind of messiah that would kick the occupying Romans out and serve as a victorious political king.  They were framing a different picture while John the baptizer looked closer at hand as he baptized people and counted on God to show him the messiah.  The baptizer looked a long time before he found him, and upon that discovery John told everyone who would listen.

There was a man sent from God whose name was John.  He came as a witness to testify to the light so that all might believe through him.  He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.  The true light which enlightens everyone was coming into the world....And as he saw Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, “Look, here is the lamb of God.”  His disciples heard him say this and followed Jesus. (John 1.6-9,36)

Am I a witness who can point out the nearness of Jesus to people as readily as the pawpaw lady pointed out the pawpaws to me?  Do I miss pointing out God’s grace to people who don’t even know how to ask?  She didn’t wait for me to ask anything; she just told me, in spite of the canine uproar.  I’m grateful, because I have gained not only a better knowledge of the forest around this river, but a deeper understanding of what it means to point out the messiah who is so very near that we often don't notice. 
       
  

Chapter 10- Beyond Words

This is the continuation from my journal on sabbatical walking from D.C. to Pittsburgh to memorize the gospel of John.  It is April 25, 2008....

 
Today starts in a different way.  I usually begin the day’s hike with my home-made prayer book open and work my way through it as I walk.  But today either a whim or laziness overtakes me.  I leave my prayer book in the backpack, and, instead, say my walking prayer (see sidebar) by heart.   I don't pray through the list of names, but simply picture in my mind the people for whom I try to pray daily.  Finally, I say what I can remember of Hildegard of Bingen’s prayer about being awakened from an ancient sleep.

Holy Spirit, giving life to all life,
moving all creatures, washing them clean,
wiping out their mistakes, healing their wounds,
you are our true life, luminous, wonderful,
awakening the heart from its ancient sleep.
                                           - Hildegard of Bingen 

Then, that is exactly what happens!  As if I am waking up from an ancient sleep to notice something new, the trail leads into a row of trees that arch overhead like branching vaults of a gothic cathedral.  The light is cool and filtered, and the air seems to be inaudibly humming with living presence.  For a few moments I step slowly through this holy space.  Although my ears hear nothing tangible, I understand with a strange certainty that I am being called to rest from memorizing more words today and simply be attentive to what's around me.  Just listen. Observe. Breathe.
   
It is an enticing invitation, but it is hard for me at first to trust that God is the source of such direction.  After all, my learning the next chapter of John is on a tight schedule if I am to finish.  Inevitably, I begin to wonder if  this seemingly holy invitation is not my over-active imagination or the protests of my lazy brain longing for a day off.  Then I remember how I just prayed with Hildegard for God to awaken our hearts from their “ancient sleep.”   Isn't that what's happening?  Why am I surprised?  Don’t I, after all, expect God to answer prayer?  So what if God’s answer is a little more dramatic this morning than usual.  This invitation is too welcoming to ignore.

So I succumb to no memorizing today.  No working on words. I’ll keep walking, God, with eyes and ears open; but you lead.  I leave the vaulted trees behind feeling a bit like a child turned loose from chores to play outside with only a  light-hearted, eagerness for looking, listening, touching, smelling. And I do pay attention because the spring morning is stunning as if the Creator has set it on display for the delight of anyone who will notice.  I start by breathing in smells: new weeds, warmed and sprouting from the moist soil;  the fishy scent of the river filtering through gills and sweeping underneath  snail shells; the green sap of  cowslips crushed between my fingers; the waft of baking riverbank clay drying in the sun; the stench of a little creature’s body decaying under the brush.  The sunlight, the noises, the colors.  The morning passes quickly.

Later, when my dog Chester and I stop to sit on the stone wall of a canal lock, we choose a shady corner underneath a maple tree.  The grass slopes down into the dry, abandoned canal bed that is covered with rocks and leaves. I pull out water to drink, but also drink in the moments of stillness.  No rhythm of my trudging feet on dirt. No jangle of dog tags on leash.  Just the stray sounds of insects and a few birds.

Suddenly a new sound emerges beside me: a soft growl wells up from a deep place within Chester.  With each breath, it grows slightly louder.  He stares at a pile of rocks.  I too watch the vicinity where his eyes are penetrating but can detect nothing.  His growling persists, growing more intense.  If it were a chipmunk or any other animal worth chasing, he would bark and wag his tail and beg to be let loose, but now he stands rigid with belly rumbling.  I have never seen him act this way.  Could it be that a snake is harbored in the cluster of stones below us?  Or perhaps it is Chester’s turn to have an over-active imagination.  Either way, I decide, it won’t hurt for me to listen to the wordless warning of my guardian.  Here I am, again, having to listen beyond words.

We move on, and, since I am supposed to be resting from words, I consider the One beyond words: I AM WHO I AM,  I WILL BE WHO I WILL BE, the timeless name of God that Jewish friends won’t pronounce out loud because it is so holy.  In Hebrew (YHWH) it is a name made up of uncertain vowels and breathy consonants, more like this early afternoon's breeze running through the tall grass than a word.  In John’s gospel, Jesus hints at this name of God, saying the emphatic, “I AM” a number of times, which raised the eyebrows and ire of religious authorities.  I AM the gate.  I AM the vine.  I AM the bread.  I AM the good shepherd.  I AM the way. I AM the truth.  I AM the resurrection.  I AM the life. These names are magnificent attempts to put into words a description of the God who is the breathy I AM WHO I AM.  The scriptures, the most wonderful words that we have, are not the same as the I AM WHO I AM.  God is so much more than can ever be conveyed in words; yet convey in words we must---as truthfully, wisely and genuinely as we can.

Yet our efforts at words are like paper before the hurricane force of God’s being.  While we share the good news in human words, all the while that holy hurricane is gusting at our backs.  Preacher, I tell myself, consider this well when tomorrow you once more pick up the work of learning words by heart.
Consider well, I admonish, that your words fall flat without the Spirit.

This afternoon, though, I can stop and lean against this tree and simply watch the different patterns made by the breeze playing on the river. "What is the chief end of man?" asks the very old Westminster Catechism, a document of careful and particular human words.  It answers: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever." That's what I'm doing now.  Today my chief end is to be quiet and simply enjoy an awakening awareness of the great I AM growling deep underneath all the words, beyond words.
 
The beloved disciple tells us that Jesus said, “I AM he, the one who is speaking to you.” (John 4.26)
   
 This pilgrim paraphrases words of a better worded hymn:
        I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Come unto me and rest.
        Lay down the words, oh, working one, be still and pause the quest.”
        I came to Jesus as I was to listen, look and kneel.
        I glimpsed in him the great I AM no words can quite reveal.