Chapter 7: By the Well

Thursday, April 17, 2008.  I am on a sabbatical pilgrimage to walk from Washington D.C.  to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.  Today I am walking from Edward’s Ferry to Dickerson. 


Today starts blue.  In between the barely leafed branches, I catch sight of a blue heron with shaggy feathers.  She is more gray than her name suggests.  She glides over the bluer highway of river to the right, the waves reflecting the sapphire sky and glinting with splashes of morning sun.  My own narrow highway, the dirt towpath, stretches ahead and is no less spectacular.  Huge sycamores rise and slice the sky into patches of deeply-hued rectangles and triangles, all framed and pieced together with the lines of gleaming white bark.  A small bluebird dips suddenly in front of me.  I breathe in color and feel excitement at my feet.  Overnight, it seems, crowds of Virginia bluebells have turned out to line this path, as if determined to cheer visiting dignitaries in a spring morning parade.  It’s too bad those visitors seem to be only Chester and myself.  I heard on the news that the Pope was greeted in a parade yesterday in D.C., now thirty miles behind me.  I think, if he had the opportunity, he would have enjoyed the one here this morning more.

In between all these blue distractions, I am learning John 4:

Jesus left Judea and started back to Galilee.  But he had to go through Samaria.  So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given his son Joseph.  Jacob’s well was there....

Jesus took a side trip to Samaria and, in so doing, walked back in history.  Jacob,  whose well Jesus stopped at, was given the name “Israel” by God.  Jacob was an impersonator, trickster, wrestler of a midnight stranger, husband of four wives, father of twelve sons and a daughter, expert herdsman and breeder of many flocks of sheep and goats...and builder of a well.  What stories Jesus and the disciples could have told as they walked past the historical landmarks in Samaria! 

My own path winds through history as well.  Each lock house along the C&O Canal was home to a family in charge of opening and closing the locks for the boats.  Some of the families are pictured in the historical park markers along the way.  In 1954,long after it fell into disuse, defeated by the railroad, Justice William O. Douglas organized an eight day walk down this very towpath, bringing with him a gathering of legislators and reporters.  The purpose was to convince them of the canal’s historical value and natural beauty.  The photograph in the book I'm reading shows them walking with overcoats and jackets on a cloudy March day.  Because of his efforts the canal was reclaimed from disrepair and made an historic national park instead of a highway.

And here I am walking west, the opposite direction of the Douglas party.  With the sun shining so brilliantly, it does not take long before the April day heats up.  This is turning out to be the warmest hiking day so far.  I have long since peeled off my fleece jacket and rolled up my shirt sleeves.  Chester and I stop several times for water.  Soon I realize that, unlike the previous days, the three bottles of water I have packed will not be nearly enough.  There seems to be some pivotal degree of temperature below which I do not need much water and above which my thirst automatically doubles.  Whereas yesterday I did not use two bottles, today after two hours, I am halfway through my third and last water bottle.  I am surprised and unprepared.

One of the advantages of walking along the towpath, especially in the eastern half, is that it is intersected fairly frequently by roads.  I know that I will be reaching White’s Ferry in a mile or so.  It is one of the last active ferry crossings on the Potomac.  I’ll have Rick bring me some water there.  I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket to call him.  After I tell him I am low on water, he informs me that he is miles away.  He has taken the opportunity of a fairly straight-forward walk on my part to drive back to D.C. and pick up some postcards I wanted.  No problem, I say.  From our vacation last summer when we were investigating parts of the trail, I remember that there is a little snack shop at the ferry crossing, a local hangout for folks waiting for the ferry or just coming to pass the time of day.  Surely there will be some water there, I tell him, and I check to see if I have some cash with me.  Before I flip the phone shut, I glance at the time.  It is almost noon. I continue walking and working on John 4:

Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well.  It was about noon.  A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.”

In another mile we finally arrive at White’s Ferry.  I turn left onto the road and follow it the short distance to the river.  The ferry is just pulling out from the landing.  It is not much more than a small flat barge and can hold maybe seven cars at the most.  I tie Chester to a sign post and head for the small building housing the snack shop.  I try the door.  It’s locked.  In the window there is a sign: Closed for the season.  Apparently April is out of season for the ferry hangout.

A  car passes slowly, beginning a new line to wait for the ferry.  Apparently Chester and I will be waiting awhile for water.  According to the trail guide we have 4.5 miles left to go.  I walk back to Chester who is now panting in the hot sun.  At least there is a good chance I will find a creek for him to get a drink even if I have to go thirsty.  “Let’s go, buddy,” and we head back on the trail and west.

There is water all around us, which only makes me more aware of my thirst.  On the right is the stagnant water left from rain and flooding that has collected in the remains of the canal, now not much more than a ditch.  In places green algae of some sort is growing like a thick carpet, hiding the water underneath.  In other places swirls of whitish fluid streak the brown, organic liquid.  I remember my friend Hank’s warning (he knows a lot about animals) not to let Chester drink from standing water like this, but to wait until we come to a free flowing creek.  The canal in this place is also chock full of turtles, and for all I know, some of them might be snapping turtles.   Not a good place for a dog to stick his nose.

But there is the river on the other side of the trail, a much more promising possibility for a dog’s thirst.  So we head off down a fisherman’s path to discover that the bank is too steep and the foothold unsure.  The currents, I have been warned, are strong and deceptive from the spring rains.  Besides, a river smelling dog, if he gets dunked, is not too pleasant.  So here we are: thousands of gallons of water around us, and no safe place for even a dog to drink. Where will we get water?  The sun is beating, Chester is drooping, I'm sweating and these are the words I am working on:

The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?  (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.)  Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”  The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep.  Where do you get that living water?”

How often do we walk through situations in our lives where the water that is available around us is  unhealthy or dangerous? I don’t mean literally, although it is certainly true that polluted water is a concern in our troubled environment.  But I am talking about how the society around us offers much to quench our thirst that only ends up being poisonous to our relationships and souls.  We eat too much, buy too much, spend too much, waste too much, are entertained too much-- all for things and causes that will not ultimately quench our deepest thirst.  Most of the time we are not even aware how much we need God’s living water.

So, God, here I am, dying of thirst on a hot day while memorizing this conversation about water by the well.  Coincidence? Or did you arrange this?  Are you trying to get me to consider whether I am as thirsty for your living water as I am for some wet, clean drinking water at the moment?

In another mile or two I am surprised to find a primitive campsite along the trail, the first one I’ve noticed so far.  I find out later these campgrounds have been cleared for bikers and hikers to use--first come, first serve. There is one picnic table, a fire pit, a portable toilet and...can you believe it?  There is a well, the kind with a hand pump!  We rush over, and I slip out of my pack and fasten Chester’s leash to it so he won’t take off into the river or canal.  Then I take hold of the long handle and begin to work it up and down, up and down.  This goes on for a couple of minutes.  It squeals and clanks.  Chester must think that the metal handle is grabbing my hand and is forcing me to move so strenuously, because he barks frantically, telling it to let go of me.

Finally, just when I am about to give up, there is a gurgling sound from deep within somewhere, and soon glorious water starts pouring out of the faucet.  Chester tries licking the falling water and laps  more air than anything else.  I let go of the pump, pull his dish out of the pack and set it down to catch a thirst-quenching stream.  After he drinks his fill, tail wagging, I take a long drink myself and then refill the water bottles.  Clear, cold, clean, slightly metallic tasting water.  Absolutely delicious.  We are exuberantly sloppy with this gift. It has spilled over my shirt and his fur, my face and his paws. 

When we are saturated enough, I load the water bottles into the pack, pull it onto my shoulders and we head back onto the trail.  In twenty minutes I am thirsty again.  How could we have made it to the end today without finding the well, I wonder.  I reach for my water bottle once again and keep learning John 4:

Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks from this well will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them  will never be thirsty, for the water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.

As I continue walking, water sloshing in my pack and stomach, I consider how my thoughts today have been dominated by thirst.  Most of the time I don’t even notice my need for water.  On a normal day at home I don’t have to think twice about whether I am thirsty or what I will do to remedy it. I can quickly grab a drink out of the refrigerator, or I can fill a glass of water from the sink and instantly go on with whatever I am doing.  But before we came to the well today, there was hardly a minute that went by when I didn’t notice how thirsty I was and how much Chester was panting away.  There was nothing I could do about it either except to keep walking. The thirstier I got, the less I noticed the interesting sights around me, the harder it was to concentrate on memorizing, the more lethargic my walking became, the less I noticed the vibrant blueness around me.  We are so physically dependent on water.

Now I begin to have a sense of how dependent we are on Jesus Christ, our living water.  Living water so vital that we think about him often as we move through the day.  So refreshing that we long for those times when we can talk to him and listen to his words.  So essential that we walk away from the stagnant waters around us, eager for the better living water he gives.  So necessary that we wouldn’t think of doing anything or going anywhere without him.  So crucial that we know we have no meaningful life without his living presence.  So replenishing that we know our love would dry up without his love ever flowing through us. 

In my little book of songs I look up the words to this hymn:

Come to me all pilgrims thirsty, drink the water I will give.
If you knew what gift I offer, you would come to me and live.”
Jesus, ever-flowing fountain, give us water from your well.
In the gracious gift you offer there is joy no tongue can tell.
                     (Text: Delores Dufner; Evangelical Lutheran Worship #777)

To be continued.....         

Grace upon Grace #1

It is April 2008 and the pilgrimage continues as I walk from D.C. to Pittsburgh, learning John's gospel by heart.  I'm back at camp after the second day:
        

"From his fullness we have all received grace upon grace." (John 1.16)

       
The sweet, yellow sunlight pours through the camper window, falls playfully into the sink where I wash supper dishes, brings to mind the golden fuzz on the seven goslings paddling between their elegantly proud parents this morning.  Dishes done, I rinse the sink of soap bubbles and crumbs, pack up the garbage and head to the dumpster at the end of the road.  But the sun is not finished with our  conversation.  It tags along behind me  and presses its slanting heat into the aching muscles of my shoulders. It feels good.  Remember more, it cajoles. 

So while my body relaxes, I recall the graces of the day's walk---like the turtle this afternoon.  She was sunbathing on a log that had partially fallen into the canal. While her blood was warming, her shell had dried to a dusty, camouflage green---the same mottled color the canal reflected back into the noon light. Her wrinkled black legs sprouted claws that gripped her shelled body into position.  Her sharp nose pointed into the air, proudly daring wispy clouds above or the over-reaching trees along the bank to compete with the watery delights of her sun-drenched world.  She would not move, not even when the metallic flash of a fish skipped across the water toward her log.

Eventually it was I who disturbed her.  I had gently slipped off my day pack to sit and learn from her silent contemplation.  A hasty plop, circles of water light, and she was gone.  I wondered at the time, since she left her seat vacant, if this was an invitation to slip into her practiced, sunlit stillness for awhile.

Chapter 6: A Few Lies and the Truth

It is April 2008, and after months of planning I am on my first day of my sabbatical pilgrimage to walk from Washington D.C.  to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.  It will be about a seven week walk altogether and twenty-one chapters of John.  I am a half hour into the first day's walk and have 9.5 miles to go.

One thing that I should say up front is that I got a head start on memorizing John before the sabbatical began.  Since people long to hear chunks of John 14 around times of dying or trouble, learning those familiar words came easily.  The amazing resurrection story is in John 20, and I told that for memory at the community Easter sunrise service the previous year.  Parts of John 1 are like beautiful poetry.  The John 3 conversation of Nicodemus and Jesus under cover of night holds powerful statements that are life changing.  John 2 is short and explosive. Throughout the last year I have learned and reviewed these chapters.

But then there is chapter 8: very long, very complicated, very repetitious, all dialogue, and not much action.  Not much fun either.  For some reason I chose to start learning this chapter a few weeks ago, more to get it out of the way, sort of an eat-your-vegetables-before-any-more-dessert attitude. I am finding out now that it is a bear of a chapter to work on. Today, the first day of the walk, I am still trying to conquer it.  The tension in its sentences reflects my own frustration with the day. (See previous posts.)  At the moment, the religious leaders are arguing with Jesus, and he, Jesus, says the devil is a liar and the father of all lies.

The afternoon grows later, and my brain tires of concentrating. Even though I should be done with chapter 8 by now,  I am still losing verses that I thought I had learned.  They keep vanishing down some memory drain, some mental black hole.   I begin to wonder if I should quit this chapter.  Maybe it is impossible.   Maybe you should resign yourself to the fact that you are not going to get the memorizing goal done, a disheartening inner thought suggests.  Perhaps you can’t do this after all.  You may very well let your congregation down and fail in this whole attempt.

My dismal thoughts start turning toward the planned check-in with Rick at canal lock six. You got a late start, another thought reminds me, as if I didn’t know.  Why don’t you just quit today’s walk early? At first I dismiss the suggestion; it would  throw the walking schedule off for the days ahead.  It is too much like giving up, and it is only the first day.  But the thought grows more persistent as my feet keep cramping and the back aching.

When I finally drag my word-frozen brain and my muscle-weary body into lock six, my husband is there waiting for me like he promises when he dropped me off at the start.  I collapse onto the grass with five miles left to go in order to complete today’s goal.  I hope for a little sympathy from my spouse.  I don’t want to be the one to say: let’s quit for the day; I have too much pride for that.  What I really wish is that my husband will say it for me.  So I tentatively mention to him how tired and sore I am getting, hoping that he will suggest going back to the campground, or, at the very least, suggest meeting me at the lock seven parking lot, only two miles further.  He doesn’t take the bait.  He seems to think a tired body is no big deal and part of goes with the adventure.

So then I try a different tack.  Knowing how much we enjoy meals in our household, I manipulatively mention that I suppose we will have to have a really late supper if I go on to complete today’s scheduled walk.  But he has a stock of nuts, sunflower seeds, and iced tea in the truck, so my whining about delayed eating goes right by him.  He seems much more sure I can easily make the next five miles than I am.  If I am going to quit, I will just have to come out and say so myself.   I can’t say it.  Silence.  See you at Carderock, he says, and the die is cast.  The truck pulls away....

And that is a good thing. The inner negative voices speaking about my getting too tired, that this is too hard, and that I won’t ever get the memorizing done watch their persuasive power disappear along with the truck.  I head back to the towpath again.  You can be miserable for the next five miles, I tell myself,  or you can accept this as another of many challenges to come and turn back to chapter 8.

To the uncooperative religious leaders, Jesus says: You are from your father the devil, and you choose to do your father’s desires.  He was a murderer from the beginning and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him.  When he lies, he speaks according to his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies.  (John 8.44)

Don’t we all struggle with the many lying voices that discourage us from what is good?  That tell us there’s no way we can do what God has called us to do?  That say following God’s way is too hard?  That give us rationalizations for giving up?  Or worse, that suggest that God has given up on us?  I’m not sure I would blame all of it on the devil, but as I walk and listen to Jesus’ words again, I begin to recognize the inner lies that have been hounding me for the last few miles.  How hard it is sometimes to discern Christ’s words to us from the daily lies that bombard and confuse us.  How easy it is to let negative thinking supercede active trust in God.  If I have thought it would be easier to follow God’s way and hear Christ’s voice out here on the trail, I have been sadly mistaken.

There are two little verses tucked right into the middle of this chapter, buried like treasure in a jumble of confusing dialogue.  I read them again.  Actually, by now I know them by heart: Then Jesus said to those who had believed in him, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”  (John 8.31-32)

The lowering sun allows the spring air to cool and the shadows to lengthen. I pass lock seven, only pausing long enough for a drink of water and to eat a few almonds.  So what is the truth?   A picture of my friend comes into my mind, and I think of all the pain she has had with infections and three knee surgeries in six  months.  I remember her courageous steps as she agonizingly has fought back to walk.  If she can do all that, surely I can make it today to Carderock.  Then I recall the verses from Daniel, chapter six, that I had read during holy week only a few weeks ago.  They had seemed so significant to me in light of the coming pilgrimage that I had copied them into my journal last week: Do not fear, greatly beloved...Be strong and courageous.

So what is truth?  That my friend who is praying for me would give anything to be out walking with me...that is truth.  That God through scripture has personally challenged me to be strong and courageous...that is truth.  That my husband has confidence that I can complete the task today and is waiting for me at the end of mile ten...that is truth.

Hearing these three truths sets me free for the last few miles.  I put away the gospel of John book and exchange it for my trail hymn book.  Into this soft album with plastic pages I have tucked the words of hymns that carry themes found in John’s gospel.  I open to the first page and read, “Come, my way, my truth, my life,” a famous text by George Herbert.  Well, while I am walking down this way, I certainly need more truthful voices in my life, so I start singing the hymn.  The words come alive, lifting some of the tiredness and erasing the last vestiges of the earlier lies.  How much easier it is to learn a text when it has rhyme wedded to music.  In a few minutes I know the hymn by heart and turn the page to sing another.

The last miles go by quickly.  Just before I reach Carderock, I turn around to see where I’ve been.  In the slanting sunlight, the sandy towpath is a glowing amber crescent, bordering the curve of the canal.   The water lies very still, perfectly mirroring the rising arch of trees whose warmed branches stretch high, hints of pale leaves emerging on their tips. On the other side of the canal towpath, a slope slides down to the frothy river which is intent upon its own conversation as it rushes over stones and around boulders.  And above us all, a silken, exquisitely blue blanket of sky deepens and descends  in anticipation of the evening.  I breath the river-scented air.  The truth, oh yes, the freeing truth is that at this moment there is no other place I would rather be.


    George Herbert (1593-1632) prays:
        Come, my way, my truth, my life:
        such a way as gives us breath,
        such a truth as ends all strife,
        such a life as conquers death.

This pilgrim prays:  The truth of your stunning creation, brimming with life and color, evokes a humble awe.  Yet  we humans fall susceptible to lies that creep into us: lies of fear, of anxiety, of being less than who you are calling us to be, of doubting you will give us strength when our own fails. Please let your truth on this walk speak more loudly than the lies that swarm around like stray gnats.  Let me hear your voice more distinctly than the whispers of defeat, distrust and fear.  Set me free, not just to walk the miles ahead, but more than anything else, to know you.

   
To be continued...while three years later I still need to hear God' s voice more clearly than the whispering defeat, distrust and fear.  It is good to remember.


Copyright by Elaine M. Dent
   

Chapter 5 continued: Word Made Flesh

It is April 2008, and after months of planning I am on my first day of my sabbatical pilgrimage to walk from Washington D.C.  to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.  It will be about a seven week walk altogether and twenty-one chapters of John.  I have just taken the first steps.


We are on our way, and for the first time on this pilgrimage, I pray the walking prayer that I had carefully composed.  Today the prayer springs to life, and I mean every word of it.  Let your surrounding Spirit protect me. Yes, please send me your protection; I have no clue what I am getting into up ahead.  Will I even be able to walk all the way?  Plant your word deep in my heart so that I may know your voice and not wander.  Will I really be able to absorb the whole book of John?  My aging brain is so jaded with unimportant matters. Is there any room to learn it by heart?  Give me strength and courage for the challenges of this day.  God, I already need courage for today's challenges, the first being, after a late start, to get in a long ten miles before dark.

Actually, I’m wrong.  The first challenge comes within the first five minutes of walking.  Chester chooses to relieve his bowels---better known as “poop” in my dog-owner vocabulary---right on the brick sidewalk near some well groomed plants by an expensive back entrance.  I am filled with self-satisfaction, however, because I am prepared for this kind of minor difficulty.  In an easy-to-reach side pocket of the pack, I pull out a plastic newspaper bag, stick my hand in it, reach down and grab the offending pile, pull the bag inside out and neatly tie it up.  We continue walking, and I keep an eye out for a garbage can to dump the package.  Judging by all the cars and pedestrians crossing on overhead bridges, the streets above probably have numerous trash cans, but there are few amenities down here where we are brushing the sides of the city’s cellars.

The sidewalk soon narrows to a ledge about four feet wide.  On one side the flat, back walls of buildings stretch several stories above us; the other side drops off with no railing into the canal.  An occasional water bottle rocks lazily on the canal water’s murky surface.  Meanwhile, I keep Chester near me on a short leash.

That’s when the second and true challenge strikes.  Chester suddenly stops. The leash jerks taut, and I recognize his stance with the arched back, lowered rear.  His nerves, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar urban surroundings and scents, have kneaded and contracted his lower intestines until they expel a soupy mess.  I have uncharitable thoughts: I wish I could calm this dog down with Valium.  Then, as I look both ways to see if anyone is coming, I consider walking quickly away and pretending that it wasn’t  my dog that left such an unsightly puddle of excrement.

Alas, I have done too much reading, including stories about pilgrims who litter along the way and have a callous disregard for the communities through which they travel.  I don’t want to be like that!  So, while a part of me fusses for being so conscientious, I reach for a second bag and bend over to do this more difficult clean-up routine quickly and get it over with.  Must be a pilgrim’s penance. 

Things suddenly get worse.  I am startled when my hand  touches something warm and moist.  I howl with displeasure before I can crank up the courage to inspect more closely.  When I dare to look, I see that this newspaper bag is defective and has no sealed bottom to it.  My bare hand has gone right through it to grab Chester’s runny poop unprotected.  Uuuuuugh!

Why does cleaning up always take so much longer than messing up?  It does not matter whether it is cleaning up the space where we live, or the earth which we have damaged, or our souls.  Cleaning up lengthens time, and I now enter the realm of slow motion.  The first deliberate step of this challenge is not using the Lord’s name in vain, and it certainly would be in vain since the smelly damage has already been done. Step two of the challenge is to wash up my dirty hand while standing on this ledge of a sidewalk.  That means making my one clean hand all by itself accomplish the following sub-steps: 1) first and foremost, not letting go of Chester’s leash and, at the same time, 2) unbuckling and taking my pack off, 3) unscrewing the water bottle to help wash the offensive hand, 4) unzipping a back pocket in the pack, 5) and finally, locating the  antibacterial spray and the fresh wipes (here teeth can assist to open the package).

Fortunately, I have everything I need to clean up, but unfortunately I have no idea how I will do these gymnastic maneuvers one-handed!  Step by step, slowly and cautiously, in order not to spread the mess on my clothing or the pack, I proceed,but I have no recollection upon writing this how the feat was accomplished.  Chalk it up to the grace I prayed for a few steps earlier in the walking prayer.  At long last the garbage is packaged up in yet another, more substantial trash bag, and we are once more on our way. 

By grace, yes, by truly amazing grace I see a trash can at the next bridge.  An angel could not be more welcome to me---a flustered pilgrim with many miles left to go before dark.
                                       
The beloved disciple says: In the beginning was the Word ....and the Word was made flesh and lived among us.  (John 1.1,14)

This pilgrim prays:  Lord Jesus, you were made flesh, which is a nice way of saying that you were born like the rest of us.  But birth is messy.  I remember that, even in a clean hospital,  it hurt like crazy, that I snapped at my husband when he tried to hold my hand, and that my swollen body contracted vulnerably in a room full of strange people coming in and out.  The beloved disciple forgets to say how messy it is to be made flesh, to be born.

So...this walk has begun with my hand grasping the mess of one of your creatures.  Was it your idea to start me off this way, for this to be the beginning?  You, on your journey in this world, embraced the sordid struggle of all our earthiness and mire. You encased yourself in vulnerable human flesh that dared to touch our infections, to wash our manure-spattered, dusty feet, and then to die a cruelly devised death.  It was messy to be the word made flesh, wasn't it?

So maybe you are saying this: there will be no room for your word to become enfleshed in me on this journey, no way for your gospel words to make a home in my pilgrim mind, unless I too stoop to embrace your world, not only when it is radiantly beautiful with your creative energy, but most especially when it is messy and throbbing with dirt, hurt and sin.  Only thus can your words be made flesh in me. Only thus can I make room for the gospel of John in my heart.  And only thus will I be able to live out your words with my brothers and sisters.

Yes, the word became flesh into the mess...and I have 334 and 1/2 more miles to go.

Copyright by Elaine M. Dent.  To be continued...

Chapter 5: Word Made Flesh

It is April 2008, and after months of planning I am on my first day of my sabbatical pilgrimage to walk from Washington D.C.  to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.  It will be about a seven week walk altogether and twenty-one chapters of John.  Today I finally get to take the first step.

The long-planned sabbatical walk starts off very unglamourously.  I have been waiting with my dog Chester at the campground all Monday morning for my husband who had spent a frazzled weekend finishing up work.  I, on the other hand, have gotten a head start unwinding from the demanding pace of  life as a pastor with a quiet weekend at a campground within easy driving distance of the beginning of the  C&O Canal trail along the Potomac in D.C.    

By the time my husband finally arrives, I have grown nervous waiting for him.  First, it is already noon and I don't know how long it will take me to walk the first section of ten miles today.  Four hours?  Five hours? Six hours or more? And, second, I am unsure how my dog Chester will behave walking in the crowded city.  Like any overly punctual person, I have been packed and ready to go for hours.  The wait has made me impatient, and there is nothing very spiritual about my attitude as we load my day pack, the dog and the maps into the truck.  Since this is the first day of walking, we have no routine established yet, no pattern of what to put where in the truck as we pack up, so I am constantly wondering if I have forgotten something that I will need. 

It is such a relief to stop all of these preparations, to leave the camp behind for the afternoon and head for the beginning of the adventure.  We do not know exactly where the trail begins, although we have a G.P.S. and maps without much detail.  I drive while my husband does the technical navigating stuff, but we still have to circle and turn around, switch lanes across traffic, figure alternatives to one way streets, and twice drive down the main street of Georgetown.  Finally, where the road splits three ways in a mass of concrete going in different directions and levels, we discover, with the insistence of the G.P.S.,  a narrow pull-off leading to the parking area for a boat store.  The information guide that we have been relying upon says that this store is near the start of the old canal.  We feel surprised and lucky to find a parking space in the city on a weekday.

I slide out of the truck and open the back door to get my pack and pull it over my shoulders.  It is heavy, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.  Chester’s eagerness to jump out and size up these new surroundings adds a layer of urgency to the process of getting myself together.  I quickly fish in the pack for some of his treats to put in my pocket and let him jump out of the truck.  When his anxiety level rises (more than mine already is) and his social behavior is on the edge of acceptable, treats are a great distraction for him. With one treat, I can win a lot of cooperation.

We look around for the canal towpath.  There is a maze of construction fencing that blocks off sidewalks here and there, and no sign of the canal which is supposed to be restored, full of water and in working condition here in Georgetown.  We start off in one direction and end up on a quiet plaza overlooking the Potomac River, but there is no canal.  There are, however, a few bikers on the other side of the parking lot where most of the construction is.  Bikers like the canal's towpath so we walk to  that end of the lot, veer off around dirt and drilling, cross a busy road at a pedestrian light, follow some arrows (to what we aren’t sure), and suddenly find a sign which announces the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park.  Stretching before us is a red brick path.  It gradually descends below street level to follow alongside a placid, dark ribbon of water hugging the base of what appears to have been old factory or warehouse buildings.  They now are probably expensive condominiums and shops, although I can’t tell from this back door, basement perspective.

My husband agrees to meet me about six miles out of town to see how I’m doing, and we say a hurried good-bye with little fanfare.  It seems like a strange, low-key beginning for what has become for me a momentous event. While he turns to rescue the truck from a parking time limit, I turn to face the bright afternoon sun and three hundred and thirty-five miles.  I am walking to Pittsburgh, I want to announce to anyone passing by.  Not driving.  Not riding the train.  Not even biking to Pittsburgh.  No, I am walking!  In this highly focused city of politics, education and persuasion, I doubt anyone would take much interest.  Actually, I am the one who needs to hear my announcement; I need to convince myself that the strange, compelling challenge is about to commence.

Then I remember the three dear friends who yesterday afternoon gathered with me in an apartment a few blocks from the Washington Monument to listen, laugh, sing, pray and bless my journey.  And I remember the many more friends back home and beyond, and the folks in the congregation, their prayers and Godspeed a week ago.  After months of planning, negotiating, and preparing, and with the encouragement of many, I am truly starting this pilgrimage.  This is the very first step.  So I announce, “Here we go, Chester.  To Pittsburgh.  Memorizing John.”   In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God....and the Word became flesh.

The sabbatical is made flesh today.  As my feet take these first steps, the gospel of John is taking flesh and moving from the ink in my little book with its plastic covered pages to the chemical storage places in my brain. Even though I am flawed and imperfect, Christ can take flesh within me with his words and being.  What is happening on this walk is truly a mystery.  But I am about to find out how messy this mystery can be!

To be continued...