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.   

Grace upon Grace #3

Another excerpt from the journal of the 2008 pilgrimage:

Across the river, the town of Harper’s Ferry nestles against closely huddled mountains. The town is invitingly connected to the canal trail by an old railroad bridge reserved for walkers.  I cross from the canal side to the south side of the river, climb through the town’s steep streets and narrow stairways, full of 18th century charm, and arrive at a massive rock overlooking the confluence of the Shenandoah River into the Potomac.  Thomas Jefferson came to this rock, perched high above the town, and wrote about the beauty of this place.  Damp with the sweat of climbing, I gratefully sit and share the rock with a soft breeze and the ghostly presence of a former president.  Together we watch the mountain shadows wade gradually into the rivers.

A slow train rumbles over a second bridge crossing the Potomac into town.  As the engine hangs over the water, it announces its arrival with a harsh, effective horn.  Within a few seconds, the mountains grab the piercing sound and mold it into a mellow echo, complete with several musical overtones.   Whistle and echo are like the difference between an amateur horn player and a practiced concert professional.  The first hits relatively accurate notes; the second makes the soul sing.  I want the train to keep sounding its amateur horn just so that I can hear the singing echoes bounce again around the rivers and hills.

Human speech is not so different.  It can be loud, effective, practical, accurate; it can pass along practical information and get the job done.  But oh, in the ordinariness of our living, don't we need a soul song---one that when reflected and echoing around us, pulls us beyond the mundane, gives us something more beautiful than efficient, stretches us to reach across the mountains and rivers that challenge us, calling us from the sweat of necessity to the hope of what God is inviting us to be.  Sitting on that rock, listening intently for echoes, I realize that the words of the gospel of John I have been learning by heart on this pilgrimage are becoming soft echoes of what I truly long for.

Here is an example simple gospel sentence that, with the repetition of memorizing, has become an echo rolling around, calling me to listen more deeply to how the story of my life is transformed by God.  When I listen carefully to its overtones, it helps me hear and see things differently about myself.  I hear it bouncing into impoverished corners of my heart and announcing God's hope for me.  The echo?  Jesus said, "I came that you may have life, and have it more abundantly." (John 10:10) 

I could listen to this echo for a decade or more.

Advent clay

I once sat on the floor at the feet of two clay masters--a mother and son who are from the Pueblo nation.  They had placed into my hand some of their precious clay which they had dug from the face of a cliff on their reservation.  I fumbled and pressed the lump, pushed and pinched, rolled and squeezed, smoothed and scratched with my fingernail, managing to evoke a rather unremarkable turtle.  They, on the other hand, carved and cut, twirled and molded.  The mother shaped an owl and did most of the speaking instruction.  The son took a sharp edge and spun a vase with exquisite spirals...a pattern he sells for thousands of dollars. I know because I later saw one of his creations shimmering in a store front window in Santa Fe.  On the day I was seated at his feet, however, the curved lines weren't right and he smashed it before my eyes.  The inexperienced child in me gasped.  As for my turtle, it didn't look like much, so I rolled it into a ball and handed it back at the end of the instruction.  I am not a potter.

But God is a potter. Listen to this verse from the first reading for the first Sunday of Advent, November 27. 

Yet, O Lord, you are our father; we are the clay and you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand." Isaiah 64:8

What do potters and clay have to do with advent?  In the advent season our worship says that the world certainly needs God's shaping to become the creation of peace and good will that God intended.  Much of it is broken.  In advent we are also called by the prophets to notice the cracks and lumps in ourselves and repent.  But repenting can only go so far in fixing the world or ourselves.  In the end the Potter must take over and mold us into a new creation.  And here's the advent promise: God the Potter has been so intent on bringing this clay creation to wholeness that the Potter came to live inside the clay when Christ became human flesh. Now that's incredible, isn't it?  The Potter becomes clay and works from within....that's Christmas !

Find yourself a clay pot and into it put a card or paper with the above verse written on it.  Then place the pot on a table or desk where you will see it every day in advent.  Whenever you notice it, whisper this advent prayer:  

You are the Potter; I'm not.
Work within me, your clay, today.

Chapter 9: War and Peace of a Beast (continued)

April, 2008: From my journal of the walk from D.C. to Pittsburgh, learning the gospel of John by heart.  This chapter is continued from previous post.

As I sit here writing at the end of this day’s battle, I must remember my dog’s gallant effort of the evening before.  Yesterday, he was so different!  He was a true pilgrim of peace who offered hospitality to a stranger.  This is what happened.

After yesterday's hike, we had driven back to the Monocacy Aqueduct again, curious to see the flooding from all the rain.  A high school track team was out running on the canal trail.  We negotiated our way through the boys milling around after they had completed their run.  Once we had walked onto the aqueduct, we leaned over the wall and watched the brown swirling water carry branches, a blue ball, a barrel, and soda bottle under the bridge’s arches and on to where the mouth of the Monocacy Creek empties into the Potomac.  I wondered how much of the debris would reach the ocean.

After a while, a boy came half-heartedly running across the aqueduct, long after most of the others had finished.  He was smaller, probably younger than the rest, and seemed more interested in the river’s scenery than running. He trotted past us, through the line of his waiting colleagues, and then around a curve in the towpath to the finish somewhere beyond our view.

We watched the river a little longer and then headed back to the truck, passing through the gauntlet of boys again.  We  asked and found out that they were from Urbana High School.  Suddenly, the young boy who had straggled behind his team mates appeared from down the towpath.  Before I could caution him, he walked straight up to Chester and started petting his head and scratching his ears.  I was immediately concerned about how Chester would react, but was surprised when he did not back away or bark his intimidating barks.  He just stood there quietly.  I could see it was hard for Chester; he was standing stiffly, but he seemed to be making an effort to control himself.

“He’s usually afraid of strangers, but he seems to like you.  Do you have a dog?” I asked.

There was a pause.  “I did....he died last week,” and the boy kept on petting Chester, who wasn’t exactly wagging his tail, but continued to receive the attention calmly.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

"It’s okay.”

“How old was your dog?”

“Fifteen,” he sighed.

“Our old dog Elsie died a couple of weeks ago too.”

He didn’t say anything more, but gave Chester a final gentle rub, said good-bye and rejoined his team.

Chester’s accepting behavior surprised me, and now I am pondering this: when we begin each day’s hike, an uncomprehending Chester listens to me pray in the walking prayer that I will have opportunity to extend peace to those I meet.  Yet last evening at the Monocacy Aqueduct, it was Chester who was the pilgrim who extended peace to one he met, a boy who was less interested in running and more absorbed by the dog he missed.  How did Chester know?  His simple gesture of remaining quiet and extending hospitality (by no means an easy feat for him) offered something to the boy that no human could have given at that moment.  In so doing Chester fulfilled more than just his self-proclaimed role as my protector.  He chose to be a peace maker too, and joined me in a pilgrim’s mission.  I am amused that God not only  answers prayer through us theologically minded  human folks, but also through the humble efforts of an overly-anxious, unpredictable, tail-thumping beast who simply wants to be fed, defend his own territory and get his ears scratched regularly.

And so, young running friend, wherever you are tonight and however much you may be missing your old dog, may the peace of the Lord (and of Chester the beast) be with you.

The beloved disciple tells us that Jesus said: Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. (John 14.27)

This pilgrim prays: O God, how you use us to extend your peace into this world is always a mystery.  We rarely know the deepest needs of folks whom we encounter throughout the day.  We do not know the hidden places where they are hurt, grieving, fearful or discouraged,  but you know.  Help me stand quietly, ask questions and listen long enough to give you the opportunity to move your peace through one soul to another.
   

Chapter 9: War and Peace of a Beast

 It is April 22, 2008 near the Monocacy Aqueduct.   I am on my sabbatical pilgrimage walking with my dog from D.C. to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.  The story continues...
   
My husband Rick and I both knew that we had some work to do to get Chester ready for the etiquette of camping life and meeting strangers.  In the early stages of preparing for the sabbatical, I started to grow concerned when, in reading through material, I noticed that some campgrounds had rules about dogs that misbehaved or barked too much; those dogs and their owners could  be asked to leave.  While the obedience classes at the pet store had been great in helping me teach Chester basic commands, and he had learned very quickly, he has kept a strong instinct about what he considers his territory. He will raise a clamor if someone steps into his space without his permission; this can be a problem when camping, especially if campsites are close.

For Chester, the challenge of dog etiquette extends beyond the territory issue.  He is the most affectionate dog I have ever owned and can charm the wits out of many people he knows if he includes them in his inner circle.  Although his big brown eyes, perked ears and thumping tail melt me every time (and he knows it),  his wariness of strangers, perhaps an imprint left from his pre-rescued past,  has never left him. He only grudgingly tolerates the veterinarian.  He is particularly untrusting around men with hats.  As his owner, I can never predict when he will nervously digress into fits of intimidating barking when a stranger tries to pet him.  Many people who consider themselves dog friendly have discovered that Chester thinks otherwise.

Then there is the matter of other dogs.  After being attacked by a neighborhood dog, Chester has always been on his guard when unfamiliar canines are approaching.  He is definitely an “alpha” dog, and he will now make a show of yanking at the leash to reach others--usually just to sniff, sometimes to growl and bark, but always to insure that they know he has the upper hand should they try anything. He is not going to allow the neighbor incident to be repeated.  The environment the canal trail is challenging for Chester because of the constant stream of strange dogs, "suspicious" people and ever changing territories, all of which send him into high alert.

Ironically, Chester’s instinctive cautiousness makes him great protection for me when we are walking through relatively isolated areas for much of these 335 miles.  Nevertheless, I invested in the services of a dog trainer who came to our home for a number of months and gave assignments.  With some hard work, Chester and I have made progress.  Let’s face it, though: Chester will never be a dog who can just chill out.  He is a product of his unique genetic beastliness: a territorial, herding, anxious but adoring protector.  I, as his owner, must always be vigilant and consistent with him on the walk, and, for a day dreamer like me,  that in itself is a challenge.

Yesterday evening and today have presented the best and the worst face of my companion-beast.  I’ll start with today's incident--the worst.  We moved our trailer to a new campground today, one that has very particular dog rules, so we know we must be on our best behavior.  Chester is by no means the only dog in the campground.  Apparently a dog show is being held in the nearby town for a breed called Papillons (from the French word for butterfly).  These are toy, spaniel-like dogs with ears that stick out like butterflies.  They, too, like to defend their territory, and in spite of their small size, they bark defiantly, especially at big dogs like Chester.

I do not mean to insult any Papillon owners, but I am quite sure that Chester does not consider these creatures to be dogs.  After all, they are smaller than most cats, their tails are as enticing as a squirrel’s, and their sharp little barks have an I-dare-you-to-come-and-investigate-me quality.  This campground  is over-run with them today.  There are sometimes three, four, even five dogs in a camper.  One campsite in a direct line of sight from the tree to which we have tied Chester has several Papillons outside in a playpen.  There is also a Papillon in the large motor home parked immediately next to us; no more than twelve feet of tiny campsite yard separates us.  Fortunately, their front door is on the opposite side from Chester’s tree. Meanwhile, we are trying to get situated in our new location and have settled him on a mat on the ground outside the camper door.  The afternoon sun is shining, the mud is drying, and a chorus of yipping Papillons fills the air as we move things in and out.  Chester observes it all.

I have just sprawled across the bed in the trailer to plan tomorrow’s walk when all hell breaks loose.  I hear a few of Chester’s most frantic, hunting-call barks and then Rick’s bellowing: CHESTER.  I know this is serious.  By the time I make it outside, the chain that was around the tree  lies broken on the ground, Chester is gone, and Rick has headed off into the campground, shouting his name. 

Fortunately, Rick soon returns hanging on to our tyrant by the collar and summarizes the brief incident.  The neighbor in the motor home came around to the back side (our side) to use his camper’s outdoor faucet and wash off his cute little Papillon.  Chester, having decided that this was an invasion of his personal space by an alien creature, barked and lunged toward the little dog and broke his chain.  The quick dog owner scooped up the little “pap” just in time as Rick yelled.  Not to be daunted, Chester took off towards the next taunting target in the direction of the pack of Papillons in the playpen.  Fortunately, our erring hunter was grabbed by Rick before he could get into too much trouble or be noticed by the campground managers.

We have abandoned any hope of a quiet afternoon as we climb into the truck and head off into town.  At a pet store we find exactly what we need: a heavy duty chain called “The Beast.”  Back at the campsite again, as the sun sinks low and the light dims, we rig up this new contraption around the tree.  There is no way that Chester can break loose now, but we are not taking any chances.  Mostly we have confined Chester indoors and only dare walk him under the cover of darkness on a dirt road that leads up a hill away from the camp.   It is our way of enforcing a truce in our beastly Chester’s war with the Papillons.

Yet as I sit here writing at the end of this day’s battle, I must remember my dog’s gallant effort of the evening before.... 

To be continued.

Chapter 8: Regarding Feet

Saturday, April 19, 2008, after the first week of walking on my way from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.

When I read books about hikers or someone on a pilgrimage, inevitably there is a section about feet.  I guess I am no different in that regard, because I too am learning the hard way that foot care is absolutely essential for a hiker.  Feet do the brunt of the work.  Not only are my feet walking farther than usual each day, but they are bearing the additional weight of my day pack.  That includes the water I carry, and water is heavy!  I give my feet credit for working harder on this pilgrimage than any other part of my body, although my back (carrying the pack) and my brain (learning John) would probably challenge that statement if I were to give them a voice.

The big danger for a hiker’s feet is blisters.  My friend who is a nurse explained to me that blisters happen when there is too much friction and pressure.  The body then rushes fluid to the hot spot to shield it, but can only protect it for so long.  Once a blister is rubbed raw, a hiker is in for some painful trouble. 

I have prepared for the blister problem.  To decrease the friction I have planned to wear two pairs of socks: a pair of wool hiking socks on the outside and a thinner sock on the inside. That way, the two socks absorb some of the friction between them.  I also have two pairs of good hiking shoes; if one starts rubbing a place on my foot, I can switch the next day to another pair to relieve the pressure. In preparing for the pilgrimage, I have done plenty of training hikes without a blister incident, so I am not overly anxious about a problem suddenly developing now.  But if all else fails, a friend has thoughtfully given me some medicated blister band-aids to carry with me.

There is a big difference being out on the trail this first week.  My feet are unused to walking for days in a row.  Whereas they have been lucky to get one long training hike a week, now they have less than twenty-four hours to rest in between walks.  Perhaps that is why one or the other foot keeps cramping up at unexpected times throughout these first days. The cramp lasts for about five minutes at a time  until finally the foot muscle acquiesces and eases again into the walking motion.  On the second day, besides the cramping, I notice a hot spot developing, but I assume that it will probably go away since I am certain my feet are toughened from training.  That second night, however, the tender place gets a band-aid, and the next day I switch shoes as a precaution.  But more blisters develop on day three, and by the end of the fourth day, Thursday, my feet are demanding some serious attention.

After getting back to the camper and taking a shower, I sit on the bed inspecting my suffering appendages.  Walking to Pittsburgh is going to be impossible without healthy feet, so I better figure out how to help.  Some hikers swear by duct tape and Vaseline, but that sounds rather drastic and unappealing to me.  So I compromise and reach for my Gold Bond moisturizer and more band-aids.  This is going to sound silly, but have you ever listened to your feet?  As mine are massaged with the cream, they immediately sigh with relief, figuratively anyway.  The skin cools down, and the hurts are softened.  They begin to look relaxed and healthy instead of dry and red. It has not been just my feet complaining, but my whole body is bone tired after finishing the first forty miles of the trail.  So instead of walking Friday and resting Saturday as previously planned, Rick and I decide that I will rest a day early and catch up on Saturday.  Before bed I rub my feet down again, looking forward  to tomorrow’s quiet day of reading, doing chores around camp and writing in my journal.

The next morning I wake up at dawn, even though there is no hike ahead.  It’s all the birds’ fault; they are noisily announcing breakfast and staking out their territorial boundaries before sun-up.....It is breeding season after all.  Their jabber is more effective than ten alarm clocks.  Before making my morning cup of tea to help open my eyes and clear dreams out of my head,  I put more lotion on my feet.  Some of yesterday’s tender hot spots have already disappeared.  These feet are obviously luxuriating in the moisturizing regimen.  I patch them here and there with a few new band-aids  and wriggle toes in the open air.

Maybe it is because I can face the morning of this day off with easy-going playfulness, or perhaps it is simply the feeling of bare feet hitting the floor instead of the inside of hiking boots, but suddenly, as if my feet had been talking to me, I get it!  I  realize what my feet have been trying to tell me: they are simply too tight, too snug when I put two pairs of socks on them.  For four consecutive mornings, as I have shoved them into hiking shoes, I have been too busy insisting  that it is good to protect them with double socks.  I have not been paying attention to the obvious.

So on Saturday, before putting my hiking shoes on to resume the walk, I massage the lotion into my feet once more and put on a fresh pair of wool socks given to me by the parents of baby Alex.  He will be baptized tomorrow.  Wearing them today will remind me to pray for him and his family while I walk.  Without putting on a second pair of socks, I lace up the shoes and stand up.  Immediately my feet are wonderfully more comfortable.  I take a few steps.  There is a marked difference in how it feels to walk, and in another hour, I am back on the trail.  Even the lingering blisters do not complain loudly today.  By the time I return to camp, shower and remove the remaining band-aids, my feet are in a state of remarkable well-being.

Listening to feet is absolutely essential, whether we are hiking or whether we are living and working in our communities of people.  There are “feet” in any organization, family, or congregation who carry much of the weight of other parts.  Christians talk about the church being the body of Christ and how different parts of the body have different gifts and functions.  In this analogy there are some people in my congregation who are the feet in the body of Christ.  They are the ones who do the trudging tasks, often cheerfully, sometimes painfully.  When people in the rest of the body of Christ are not listening carefully to one another, “feet” are the ones who bear the friction of the community.  They try to help us keep our balance in the midst of pain and aggravation.  It has been the “feet” in the congregation who paved the way for me to be doing this sabbatical walk in the first place and who now bear the weight of decision making while I am away.

I am immensely grateful to feet: to the ones back home who are leading the congregation’s way, and to the ones on whom I am slathering more Gold Bond.  Thanks to all of them, the first fifty miles are done.

The beloved disciple tells us:

Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God,  got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself.  Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.  He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?"   Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand."     (John 13. 3-7)

This pilgrim prays:

Lord Jesus, you walked many miles, teaching the good news, healing people and feeding a crowd along the way.  But when you came to the end of  your  journey on earth and were eating the last meal, you noticed the  dusty feet of your disciples who had accompanied you all that long way.  You got down on the floor to wash their feet.  That’s the way you taught them and us to serve one another.  You taught us to tend to the simple needs that we would otherwise hastily ignore.  You taught us to value our brothers and sisters who accompany us in ministry.

When you knelt at your friends’ feet, did you picture the many more miles they would yet walk on this earth for you?  Did you foresee the dangers they would step into in order to tell others about you? When you poured water over their feet, did you pray a blessing on all their future walking when you would be physically gone?  Oh, Lord Jesus, please pray a blessing on my walk too.  I still have 285 miles left to go, and beyond that, who knows how many more miles on this earth.  I hope I can carry your water-pouring, on-the-knees blessing back home to my brothers and sisters who are also trying to walk in your way with their tired feet.  Hand me your towel, so that when the time comes, we can go back and bless them together, you and I.

    (To be continued...)