Day Hiking

I couldn’t resist. I saw the sign driving into town, and it taunted me all weekend until I gave in. Ever since I first heard of the Appalachian Trail, I was enamored by the idea of a trail that went from Georgia to Maine. At one point in my life, I seriously thought of walking the entire thing, but now I look on and admire those who have.

Sort of like my life of faith.

I climbed out of my car and took a deep breath. Although I wanted to remove my shoes, like Moses, because of the sacredness of the trail, I knew better. I walked an hour in one direction and then back again. For me, there is nothing like hiking to take my mind to places beyond day-to-day logistics. What really matters is clearer when I’m on the trail.

Sort of like my life of faith.

Halfway through, I came across a hiker with a beard, backpack, and stabilizing poles. I asked if he had walked much of the AT, and he informed me he’d walked all of it. He began at Springer Mountain (the trail’s origin) in February and was on his way to Mount Katahdin. “You’re a Through-Hiker!” I said with chills. After he continued on his way, I felt as if I had been in the presence of greatness. Somehow, knowing he was walking the entire trail made me feel better. If I can’t, or won’t, do it, at least there are those who do.

Sort of like my life of faith.

Once I was back at the car, I drove back to my hotel and passed a beautiful church with a sign about Sunday services. Like the AT sign, it stayed with me. I knew I had to return on Sunday. I’ve always loved going to church; it’s a way for me to get back on the trail again, even if for an hour. Maybe I’ll sit beside some “through hikers,” people who live their faith every day. That would give me chills and inspire me to hike just a little bit more.

Three Dots Blinking

I was texting with a dear friend, and the humorous banter made me eager for his next reply. Staring at the three dots blinking in succession, I knew he was coming up with a witty reply, and I couldn’t wait. It seemed to take forever, but, as I sat there staring, I realized how often my conversations with God feel like that.

I’m not good at praying. Growing up in the Episcopal church, I felt my prayers needed to be read from the Book of Common prayer, or be as poetic as Thomas Cranmer. Eventually, I worried less about how I spoke and focused on what I was trying to say. I found it easier to speak when using my own words, expressing my deepest thoughts regardless of how raw or unpolished they were. I’ve also turned to writing in a journal in an attempt to get my soul to breathe, which, after all, is what prayer is.

The problem is, my prayer life so often feels like a monologue, like one hand clapping. I’ve never had a burning bush, nor been knocked off a horse (in the spiritual sense). While I do think God has spoken to me, it’s always in whispers. It’s never been as clear, or as often, as I would like. It’s felt like the three dots blinking, like God is on the other end working of His response, but it takes forever. I wait, staring at the screen, so to speak, but the dots keep blinking.

I’ll keep waiting.

A response will come.

At least, I hope it will.

Crying Flowers

Her tears caught everyone in the room by surprise. They didn’t run down her cheeks but fell straight to the floor. She was young, newly sober, and scared to be sitting in an AA room full of strangers. And yet, she stayed.

Even now, I’m thinking about her tears. What was their source? What could I have said to make her feel better? A kind word? Something inspirational? Or maybe the too-often-used remedy of humor, which I know is only a way to disguise my discomfort with tears (mine as well as others). For some reason, I have a paralyzing fear of tears.

But if the 12-step recovery rooms have taught me anything, it is that we should let tears flow. We should be brave enough to go into the darkness, the place where wounds go to fester and grow, regardless of sadness it will stir. To do so will hurt and bring tears, but those tears and the willingness to touch the wounds that cause them are the very things that lead to new life.

Jane Yolen wrote a collection of stories entitled, The Girl who cried Flowers. The title has always reminded me that our tears can be a source of life, that the pains and sorrows we carry can bring new life - to others as well as to ourselves - if shared. It’s easier said than done, I know, but watching the tears fall on the floor this morning makes me want to try.