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...)

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.