Small stone, day 9

Nine days done; 22 days to go.   (Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Chickadees dive, wrens dart,
Nuthatches hang upside down,
Finches cluster, juncoes browse,
titmouses wait their turn,
a northern flicker bullies,
sparrows glean under the holly bush;
swoop, swipe a seed, haul the bounty to
a branch and eat it in peace.


Praying today: For hungry people in our communities.

Signs (Continued)

There are no C & O signs for Cohill Station when I arrive here this afternoon.  Today, it is only because of the previous mile post I just passed (yes, I did notice what I needed to see after all), that I am alerted  that Cohill Station is near.  When I check my trail guide, I see that the road on the other side of the canal must be  where Rick will pick me up.  Sure enough, not much farther on the trail there is a wooden bridge that leads over the empty canal to the road.   I walk across.  There is nothing here that indicates to a vehicle traveling down the road that the cleared dirt area twenty yards way is anything more than a farm turn-around.  It certainly does not look like a parking lot for the towpath or pick-up point for a lonely hiker.  There are no buildings around; no abandoned station.  Nor is there any C&O sign at this bridge that will notify Rick that this is Cohill Station.  Well, he won’t need a sign, I think to myself.  I will sit here right on the bridge by the road that runs within  four feet of me; I myself will be the sign that he cannot miss.

I slip the pack off my shoulders, tie Chester to the wooden rail, and pull out snacks and water for both of us.  This has been a shorter walk today and it is only 2:00 pm.  Lounging on the smooth bridge boards, I try to call Rick on my cell phone to tell him I am done walking, but there is no coverage out here.  Ever since the trail has entered the mountains, cell phone service has been spotty.  Geologically, the Potomac has done its hard work of carving through soil and rock, ridge after ridge, as it flows east so that now it lies deep in the shadows of the bluffs, cliffs and the worn mountains it has gashed.  Signals from distant cell towers to my peaceful resting spot here below near the riverbed are blocked by all this stone and earth.

I don’t mind waiting awhile.  I have been wistfully aware that this is my last day walking the trail in early spring.  Tomorrow we pack up, leave the trailer in a campground nearby and head back home to prepare for our three week trip to the Pacific Northwest.  When I return to this bridge next month, the wild flowers that have become familiar will be long gone. The tree leaves will no longer be tiny and tender green.  Magenta pawpaw blossoms will have dried and disappeared, exposing green fruit.  Ducklings will have lost their fuzzy down.  Spring floods will have waned.   Part of me laments leaving these signs of the young, unfolding spring that will be more grown up when I return.

I have been learning  about signs in John’s gospel.  Jesus is often doing “signs” that are supposed to point to who he is: the Messiah, God’s son,  for whom the people have been waiting.  For example, the first sign he reluctantly does is to change the water in large stone jars into wine for a wedding.  A few people are aware of what happened, but most simply enjoy tasting the new wine he made available.  His disciples are impressed with the sign and decide he is certainly someone to follow.  Only the gospel writer narrating the story seems to understand:  this sign shows Jesus to be the “bridegroom” come to the people of Israel.  Later Jesus performs signs of healing, making a lame man walk and healing a little boy about to die of a high fever, but the crowds seem more interested in getting in line for the next healing than believing in the one who might heal their relationship to God.  Now in chapter six, the chapter I’ve been working on the past few days, Jesus feeds the crowd of five thousand people with five loaves and two fish, and the crowd chases after him across the lake.  When they find him, they ask:

"Rabbi, when did you come here?"  Jesus answered them, "Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.  Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you."  (John 6.25-27)

When the crowd realizes that Jesus is not going to give them another free meal right away, they try a different angle:

So they said to him, "What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing?  Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, 'He gave them bread from heaven to  eat.'"  Then Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven.  For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world."  They said to him, "Sir, give us this bread always."  Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”  John 6.30-35

Most of the crowd, including some religious leaders, had trouble understanding the spiritual nature of what Jesus was saying.  They were clueless about the sign.  When Jesus starts talking about eating his flesh and drinking his blood, that does it.  Even some of his regular followers end up leaving him, thinking his words are either ridiculous or that he is talking about some sort of cannibalism.  Jesus’ signs seem to be “blocking up the scenery” and “breaking their minds” and turning people in another direction.

I have been waiting for about an hour now, and in that time only a few cars have passed by.  Some horses.  A few bikers on the trail.  Otherwise it has been very still in this comfortably warm sunshine with the minutes drifting by.  Then I see it,  a shiny black truck heading up the road toward me.  “Chester, here comes our ride.”  I begin to get up: slowly, I admit, since my body does not move quickly from ground position.  I smile as the truck approaches...too fast and, smile fading, the truck whizzes past.  I belatedly start waving at the rear view mirror and yelling, a  futile endeavor since the windows of the air-conditioned truck are up, but somehow the energy of shouting into dusty, deaf air makes me feel like I am doing something useful.  It is, however, peculiarly useless.  Rick did not see me, and I thought I was a sign impossible for him to miss.

How much quieter it is now on the side of the road.  To be unnoticed and overlooked leaves me in uneasy silence.  Only a few deep breaths ago I was full of relishing spring and puzzling through munching on the bread of life.  But now, in the empty space of being left behind, I note the angle of the sun, guess the hours of daylight remaining (just in case), hear the sound of a mower far away uphill, and wonder if that leads in the direction of a land line phone at someone’s farm.  I try the cell phone again and it beeps an “emergency numbers only” signal.  I wonder: if I dial 911, would it really work?  Then  reluctantly I acknowledge that this is not a situation that warrants my trying...yet.

So Chester and I begin walking in the direction the truck disappeared.  We walk for maybe five minutes before coming to a strange, three-way intersection with one road curving narrowly under an abandoned railroad bridge.  I notice that the road signs seem rather confusing. It seems like the road I am standing on is not labeled the same as the trail guide indicates.  Is Rick looking on the wrong road because of the confusion?  I have no idea which of the two ways Rick hurried down, so rather than stand here and look lost (which technically I’m not, since I know I must be at Cohill Station....here’s the railroad after all), Chester and I walk back to the apparently  unnoticeable wooden bridge.  I decide I will be a better sign if I am standing up as opposed to sitting down.

The afternoon progresses, and it is now the hour for folks to be driving home from work, although in this remote area there can’t be many homes to drive to.  Now I am standing here getting hungry.  I met the wife of the mayor this morning.  She was power-walking on the trail in Hancock.  When I asked her about the best place to eat dinner, she very diplomatically told me the town’s restaurants were all good, but she offered the name of the longest running, most historical eating spot...home-style cooking, she said.  I can smell a Maryland crabcake coming.

Each sound of a  vehicle approaching from around the bend brings new hope.  After five or six disappointment, with long spaces in between, the truck, much slower now, comes into view.  This time I am prepared and start waving sooner and pour all my  mental concentration into willing Rick to look at me.  Only when the truck sharply veers over into the small cleared area, do I know for sure that we have succeeded in being the sign to pull over.

After all, we disciples of Jesus are suppose to be signs: signs to others that God indeed has come, that God is healing, God is feeding, God’s Messiah is abundantly present and working in this age.  Am I a sign that is joyfully and enthusiastically waving and pointing to the bridge we have just crossed, the way of Christ we have found?  Or am I sitting down preoccupied, lost in the weeds and grass as others rush by in their busy life’s focus?  (I find out later Rick’s eyes were focused down on his GPS on the first drive-by.)

Being a sign to others that God is present in the world may take some intentional effort on our part, and, at the very least, require the Holy Spirit’s intervention for connections to be made:  a smile, a wave, an invitation, putting ourselves into the path of conversation, a bowl of soup, a clean bed, a pounding hammer, a note written.  Our purpose is to be a sign to the searcher who is looking.  Of course, we signs may not recognize who is searching, and the searchers may not have a clue what sign they are looking for, but it is all up to God to bring the two together.

Right now, I am simply relieved that this sign and this searcher have found each other.  We head into town for crab cakes while there is enough daylight left to admire the layers of hazy green mountain ridges and the ribbon of blue river winding below: signs that it is once again a lovely spring season in God’s earth.

Small stone, day 8

Day 8 already! 23 days to go.  (Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

When the sun crests the tree line,
my hair and shoulders feel it.  Our warming
shadows stretch to the far end of the park
and disturb a bevy of mallards in the un-iced corner
of the pond.  In loud unison they rise like steam,
except for a handsome pair remaining to 
paddle lazily between a few floating feathers.

Praying today:  For the congregation as it gathers to worship and sing in unison.

Small stone, day 7

Listen:  Pine needles sift wind.  Grounded leaves shuffle.  Swaying limb creaks.  Galloping paws pound the earth. Barking.  Panting.  Down in the valley the train rolls and whistles, the highway hums.  Crows caw on the ridge. A chickadee calls.

Praying today:  For a place where the sounds are very different.  "Winterfest" is in Lancaster this weekend and several hundred Lutheran youth and young adults are noisily worshiping, serving, learning and playing.

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Chapter 14-- Signs

(From my journal, Wednesday, April 30, 2008.  I am walking from Hancock. MD, to Cohill Station on my way hiking from D.C. to Pittsburgh, memorizing the gospel of John.)

There was a song years back: “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind....”  Actually, along this towpath, there are not many signs.  There are brown, square wooden posts, one every mile along the trail, with the mileage carved into them and the indented numerals painted white: 32...55...91...113.  When matching up the mile marker to the trail map in my pocket, it can be handy to know how far one has come, how many miles to the next trailside campsite (as in portable toilet), and how far one has to go to the destination (a comfortable seat in the truck home to the campsite).

I often miss the mile posts when I am absorbed in learning John, or when I am looking around at something else  like the pawpaw trees, so I have gotten the bright idea of trying to train Chester to notice them for me.    Whenever we stop at a mile post (that I notice), I place hot dog bits on its top square surface, and Chester is immediately standing on his hind legs scarfing it down.  I figure, if I am staring at turtles or muskrats in the canal, I won’t miss mileage information if he pulls me to the mile post in anticipation of eating hot dog bits.

That is as  far as the training goes.  From his perspective, mile markers are pretty indistinguishable from the rest of the scenery, unless, of course, another canine has peed on it.  For him to notice the mile post first, then drag me over to put a treat on it...well, that seems to be either beyond him or, more likely, beyond my consistency and patience to train him right now.  My contemplative prayer friends, who are cheering me on this walk, would remind me that I don’t need mile posts to control and plan and measure where I will be.  Pilgrims, they would say, are playfully attentive to whatever is happening at the moment; they enjoy where they are now, knowing that they will see what they are meant to see and be where they are meant to be.  So much for Chester noticing mileage signs.

There are also the occasional campsite signs.  Each primitive campsite along the towpath is marked by a sign that gives a name, such as Huckleberry Hill or Killiansburg Cave, followed by how many miles east and west to the next campsite.  While these signs may catch the attention of swiftly moving bikers and help them plan whether to stop for the day or continue on, for a walker these signs are rather superfluous.  I don’t need a sign to see the picnic table in the clearing over there, the campfire pit, the portable toilet and the hand pump for water.  At the slower pace I am going, the sign’s information about mileage to the next campsite is irrelevant, since I probably won’t pass the next campsite it points out until tomorrow.  I do, however, enjoy reading the campsite names.  They trigger  my curiosity about what might be nearby.  Huckleberries?  Too early in the spring.  A cave?  I start watching the bluffs on my right, instead of the mile posts.

There are signs posted in the major parking lots which serve as the popular entrance points to the towpath.  These signs are helpful for people traveling in vehicles trying to find the trail.  “Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park”  the large wooden signs read, noting the specific location: "Edwards Ferry," or "Hancock", or "Great Falls."

However, unlike what the old song says about signs being everywhere, there are often no location signs marking the less frequented vehicle access points to the trail.  When Rick and I  go searching for the location of the next pick-up point, we often must rely, not on a sign, but on maps, GPS navigation and the river to ascertain exactly where we are.

We used to be diligently prepared and check out our pick-up points before hand.  Lately Rick and I have become lax about investigating the pick-up points in advance.  With the mountain ridges always blocking the way, it can be a time consuming, round-about drive to check things out for the next day.   After a long hike, I am more interested in getting back to the campground for a shower rather than figuring out where I will be picked up the next day.  But that proves to be a risky mistake, as we shall see when this post continues...

Small stone, day 6

Slice through the yellow-skinned grapefruit,
scent sharp as sunburn
sprays from twelve, glistening segments,
spoonfuls to quench the craving 
for long lit days.

Praying today: Giving thanks today for fruit: for those who plant and tend trees and vines, for those (often migrants) who harvest, for those who deliver these gifts that keep our bodies healthy.

Today is the feast of Epiphany.  May your journeys lead you, like the wise men, to adore the Holy One.

Small stone, day 5

A sheet of fine white linen stretches 
before me on walkway and road, 
beckons feet to be first in 
joining winter's royal procession.
I wonder in pre-dawn light
why the grass alone seems bare,
uninterested in the festive show;
it has simply swallowed the snow whole.


Praying today:  For all those who are taking first steps of one sort or another.


(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)