a surrender - 24

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four, "the anawim")

The next few weeks were pretty interesting. Nice views as I was coming through the mountains. Many acts of kindness from strangers, and some good conversations. I was stopped several times by the police, who were suspicious, but they accepted my story and sent me on my way. I found some new places to sleep, like a baseball dugout. And I found I could usually check e-mail in libraries, and sometimes buy used books there, so I could have something good to read during my quiet hours alone. I called home often, telling my parents the stories about how my needs were provided for, day by day. And they told the stories to my younger brother, who lived in another state. My brother had been supportive, but he was surprised that I wasn’t even asking people for help. “He just prayed?” he asked my mother. “And he got it?” Then he said perhaps the most touching words a brother could hear: “I love God for taking care of Paul.”

As Sunday approached again, I tried to get cleaned up for church. I was able to wash clothes at a laundromat, and wash my hair in the bathroom sink there. But when I asked a young woman at a gas station if there was a church down the road, she said there wasn’t. Before stopping for the night, though, I noticed a tower with a bell set back from the road. 

It was a little, fairly new-looking Evangelical church. I had made a habit of visiting whatever church I happened to come to, so I met churchgoers of many different varieties. Sometimes they had very different ways of worshiping and talking about God and faith. But I was pretty comfortable with all the variations. At this church the people were very friendly, and I had a number of conversations before and after the service. There happened to be a potluck supper afterwards as well, so there were more good conversations. And I was glad for the meal. I had only three dollars with me.

At the beginning of the supper, the pastor had asked me to stand up and say a little about my walk. I was surprised and didn’t give a very good explanation, I thought. But as we finished eating, the pastor got up and announced that they had quietly taken up a collection for me. He presented me with $75. I was so surprised that I blushed in front of everyone and didn’t know what to say. Afterwards I went to thank the pastor. And also to give some of the money back. I wasn’t used to having so much money with me, and I actually felt it was better for me to have less. The pastor wouldn’t take it, though. “God gave you that much,” he told me, with a laugh. “You’re probably going to need it.”

So I thought maybe I could give some of it away, maybe in the bigger city I was headed for. I had a friend there who I was planning to visit. Then, later that day, a semi truck pulled over ahead of me, and the driver got out. He asked me if I needed a ride. This was very unusual. Commercial truck drivers never stopped to pick people up; I assumed it was against their company policies. But this guy seemed friendly, and I usually accepted invitations as an opportunity to talk to people. So I got to ride in a big truck and see a little of what that life is like. After talking with the man for a while, it seemed that he was pretty lonely. He had lost his wife and child in a car accident, not so long ago. Traveling around and working long hours helped keep his mind off it. But our conversation didn’t go like it had with the other very lonely man I had met. After a while it became pretty clear that this man was hoping for a kind of companionship that I wasn’t willing to offer. When I turned him down, he just seemed even more lonely. Random voices crackled on the CB radio. Then he asked where I wanted to be dropped off. We were already coming into the big city I was headed for, but we were on a major highway now, where walking was not allowed. And it was already dark. I just said he could pull over near the next exit. As I climbed down from the cab, I thanked him for helping me, and said I was sorry about his wife and child, and promised to pray for him. Then the truck rolled away into the night. 

I didn’t know where I was, exactly. I just walked down the exit ramp, hoping I could find a place to sleep. But this was a much more urban area than the places I had walked through so far. Tomorrow I could get my bearings. But where would I go tonight? I looked around at all the bright lights and signs in the darkness, and then I saw it. A motel right there. It looked nice, though, and right by the highway. It must be expensive. I went in and nervously asked how much a room cost.

It was $69. The pastor was right.

Continued...

a surrender - 23

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four, "the anawim")

Three days later I bought breakfast with the last of the money the pastor had given me. And while I walked through the foothills that day, I waited, and hoped. But I didn’t meet anyone. Lunchtime passed, then two o’clock, three, five, no one. I didn’t feel overly hungry as suppertime approached, then that passed too. Six o’clock, seven-thirty. By that time I was starting to feel a little weak, and by eight the sun was setting and I began to wonder if I could even find a place to sleep that night. I stopped at a gas station to fill my canteen with water. And gazed at the imposing mountains around me in the fading light. 

That’s when a man walked up with his dog. He had been walking his dog as he always did, he said, when he noticed me. He wondered what I was doing, where I was headed. I answered his questions, but restrained myself from mentioning my needs. Then he said, offhandedly, “I live right over there. It’s a big house. There’s plenty of room, if you need a place to stay tonight.”

I think I surprised him a little when I accepted his invitation. He showed me around his two-story house. Then he asked if I had eaten. “No,” I said, as casually as I could. The next thing I knew, he was bringing out beef stew, chicken, a huge salad, macaroni and cheese, and then he went out and came back with ice cream that he had just bought for me. We talked until midnight. And I was able to take a shower and drop into a soft bed, feeling very full and very grateful. In the middle of the night I heard rain beating heavily on the roof. I smiled and rolled over and went back to sleep. 

The next morning I was up early, thinking about our conversation the night before. The man seemed to be very lonely. He was clearly thrilled to have company. I went downstairs but he wasn’t up yet, so I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could make us some breakfast. The kitchen was a mess. There were dirty dishes everywhere, and they seemed to have been there for days. So I started washing them. That’s when I noticed that his spice rack didn’t have any spices in it. Instead, it was filled with bottles of prescription medication. I began to wonder if that kitchen was an outward sign of what was going on inside my new friend.

When the dishes were done, I found some eggs for breakfast, and the man came down. While I was cooking we started talking again and our conversation continued all morning. He had experienced great losses in his life. His two daughters had died as babies, from SIDS. Then his wife had died after a long battle with cancer. And he had come back to this house to care for his parents, when they had gotten cancer. Now they were gone too and he was alone. He felt abandoned. Not only by all the people he had loved, but also by God. I tried to assure him that God had not abandoned him, that God was with him in his pain and loneliness. I thanked him for his kindness and explained how he had rescued me. And I said I thought maybe God brought us together, as a sign to each of us, to show that God hadn’t forgotten us. He seemed to agree with that. He said he felt our talk was a message from God, a message of hope. After lunch, when he said goodbye, sending me off with a sandwich and fifteen dollars, he seemed rejuvenated. I felt rejuvenated too. For the rest of the day, it felt like I was walking two inches above the road.

Continued...

a surrender - 22

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four, "the anawim")

When I left the monastery, I gave the monks the last of my money. I took just two peanut butter sandwiches and three apples. That lasted until the next day, which was a Sunday. I came to a church early, before it opened, so I thought I’d wait and go to the service. Since I had no food left, I wondered if I should ask for help there, then decided it would be better to just go to the service and not ask for anything. Afterwards, though, the pastor started asking me questions. And at one point he wondered, “So how are you financing this thing?” When he found out I had nothing, he took me to a nearby store and bought me a sandwich. Then he told me to keep the change (from a twenty dollar bill). “You be careful out there,” he said.

That surprising experience got me thinking. My needs had been met without me asking. I hadn’t even mentioned any need, just answered the pastor’s questions. Would it be better if I didn’t ask people for anything along the way? Jesus had taught his followers, “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat… Look at the ravens: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet God feeds them… Do not seek what you are to eat and what you are to drink, nor be worried, for everyone seeks after these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.” Maybe I didn’t have to ask because God knows what I need. If my needs were met without me asking for anything, it would feel more like everything I was given was a gift from God, like God had prompted people to help rather than me prompting them. And it would require faith from me. A surrender. Waiting for God to prompt someone, waiting for God to decide if I would eat, waiting for God to enable me to continue. And as I thought about this more, I realized it would also offer more freedom to the people I met. I wouldn’t pressure them to do anything, I wouldn’t even ask for anything that would cost them anything or cause them to take any risks. I would just gratefully accept anything they freely chose to give. Yes, that seemed right. 

But it also seemed unlikely to work.

Continued...

a surrender - 21

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four, "the anawim")

I was grateful that many of my encounters with people during the months I had been on the road hadn’t been like that one. When I got off the Appalachian Trail, I walked on roads for about 300 miles before I got to the monastery where I had planned to stop. Since I had gotten rid of my tent and big backpack the walking was easier, and I still had money with me. It was a different way of life than on the trail. It was easier to get food, and there were places to rest, such as parks and libraries. But it was a little more tricky finding places to sleep. I ended up sleeping in a number of unusual places, like picnic shelters and cemeteries, even in front of a volunteer fire station once (and was suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by many running boots and blaring sirens). Sometimes the police stopped me and questioned me. But people didn’t drive me away very often, and I was grateful for any opportunity to meet someone and explain what I was doing. When there were church services at a church I came to, I usually joined them, and I often met people who were friendly and welcoming and curious. 

When I had almost reached the monastery, I was leaving a town and noticed a Catholic church that was having its daily service. An older woman was going in and invited me to join them. So I went in, but sat in the back, in the separate “cry room” (for noisy kids), because I was pretty sweaty and dirty from walking. I decided not to stay, though, as I was feeling very tired. So I left the church, and walked until I found a quiet place to take a nap. At the same time, there was another woman, Colette, on her way to that church, running late. Just before she arrived, she noticed me walking along the road, and wondered about me. Then she slipped into the cry room, where I had just been. After the service, the older woman came in. “Where is he?” she said. Colette didn’t know who she was talking about, but then she remembered seeing me walking. So she was thinking about me as she did her errands in town. And on her way home she saw me again. Because of my nap, I hadn’t gotten far. Then Colette took a chance: she stopped her car and invited me to lunch at her house. We had a long, deep conversation, and she introduced me to five of her children (out of eight). She knew the monastery I was going to. And after consulting with her husband, they asked me to spend the night at their house. It was a wonderful experience for me. It felt like family, though I had never met them before. And they seemed happy and energized by the experience, not just because of our good conversations but, I think, because of the good outcome of their risky generosity. It seemed to me clearly an act of faith on their part, opening their home because they felt it was the right thing to do, even though they couldn’t be sure it was safe. The experience seemed so good for everyone involved that it felt like a gift from God.

Leaving Colette’s house, I was greatly encouraged. That was the kind of encounter I had hoped might happen as I walked through cities and towns. So when I arrived at the monastery a few days later, I was ready to take a much-needed break, then continue the walk.

Continued...

a surrender - 20

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four)

 

the anawim

"Hands against that wall, and spread your legs.” The officer began to pat me down, checking for concealed weapons. But I was still arguing heatedly with the seminary professor next to me. 

I had noticed the school just as the sun was setting. There was no one there, so I looked around, and then lay down on the covered sidewalk that surrounded the main building. I wanted a little shelter in case it rained that night, and it didn’t seem like I would bother anyone here. I was awakened after dark, though, when a car pulled into the parking lot. An older man got out, then a young man. It sounded like they had just stopped to pick up another car that had been left there. I always asked permission before sleeping on someone’s property, so I got up and waved to the two men and introduced myself. I explained I was walking long distance, on a kind of “faith walk,” and asked if it would be okay if I slept on the sidewalk beside the school. The older man said he was a professor at this seminary, and he quickly went inside. The young man was apparently a student. When the professor returned, he informed me that he had called the police, in accordance with school policy. 

While we waited for the police to arrive, the professor asked me about my “faith walk.” I explained that I had been inspired by the way Jesus lived, how he gave freely to people and trusted God to provide for all his needs. I said I had been walking for many months now, traveling for thousands of miles, without any money of my own and without asking anyone for anything more than water for my canteen. And occasionally I had asked to sleep on someone’s porch or sidewalk. “That’s all you carry?” he asked. My small “pilgrim” bag lay on the sidewalk, along with an Army surplus coat that I also used as a blanket. “Yes,” I said, “and my walking stick.” 

Then the professor started explaining to me that the way of life and teachings of Jesus that I was referring to were meant only for that time and place. That was “the time of Jesus.” The extreme teachings like not fighting back when you’re attacked, giving to whoever asks you, and selling all your possessions to follow Jesus were meant to make an impression, to catch people’s attention. Yes, Jesus and his first followers lived that way. But Jesus didn’t expect people to continue to live that way after he was gone. So I should settle down and get a job, he said. 

“But,” I replied, “Jesus said, ‘Follow me.’” 

That’s when the conversation started to get heated, and the patrol car pulled up. The officer had me put my things in the trunk, then frisked me, while we argued. As he was leading me to the car and opening the door to the back seat, I said to the professor, “Well, I’m sorry that you’re not living in the time of Jesus, but I am.” 

The car door slammed shut. As we pulled away, I noticed the student. He hadn’t said anything the whole time, just stared, with his mouth hanging open.

Continued...

a surrender - 19

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter three, "into the wilderness")

I was off the trail. And I was going to continue walking, on roads, from town to town. But it didn’t feel like I had made the decision, it wasn’t because I felt like I was ready. The frightening experience of the previous day had shaken any feelings of strength or confidence in my preparations. That morning when I awoke in a soft bed, the words of Psalm 116 immediately came to mind. In the Dominicans we had chanted the Psalms, and I had memorized this one:

I love the Lord
for he has heard
the cry of my appeal,
for he turned his ear
to me
on the day
that I called him.

They surrounded me,
the snares of death,
with the anguish
of the tomb;
they caught me,
sorrow and distress.
I called on the Lord’s name,
“O Lord my God,
deliver me!”

How gracious is the Lord,
and just.
Our God has compassion.
The Lord protects
the simple hearts;
I was helpless
so he saved me.

Turn back, my soul,
to your rest
for the Lord has been good.
He has kept
my soul from death,
my eyes from tears,
and my feet from stumbling.

I will walk
in the presence of the Lord
in the land of the living.

Those words would come back to me many times in the years that followed.

When I called my parents to tell them I was getting off the trail, I was glad that I was over a thousand miles away. I knew it was not going to be an easy conversation. Not because I was afraid of disappointing them, but because I was sure they would be very afraid for me. And I didn’t think I could explain what I was doing in a way that they would understand. If they had been standing there in front of me, crying, I don’t know if I could have gone through with it. But I didn’t have to see their faces when I tried to explain that I was going to continue walking and trust that God would protect me and provide what I needed along the way. There was a stunned silence. Then my father saying, “So… you’re gonna to be a bum?”

I knew they loved me. And I felt sure that, if God did protect me and provide for me, my parents would eventually accept and believe that. They were good souls. 

But I didn’t think I would find the same acceptance among most of the people I would meet on the road. After my days in the wilderness, I believed that God was with me. But it didn’t seem likely that most other people would see it the same way. Soon after, I came across this poem by Emily Dickinson:

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
‘Tis the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—
you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

 

Continued...

a surrender - 18

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter three, "into the wilderness") 

When I got to the road, I set up my tent and considered my situation. The weather was no better. It was three more miles to a small village, then maybe fifteen miles to Damascus after that. I needed to sleep. It was 2:30 pm. I decided to nap as long as I could, while I was still warm from walking. I managed to sleep about an hour and a half, then woke up shivering. Checked the weather: cold, windy, no break in the clouds. That settled it. I ate my supper and braced for a long walk. First get to the village, then decide what to do next; but I was getting off the trail right now. I quickly packed my things and started down the road. It was easy walking, downhill, and I immediately began to feel better. 

The village was small, farmy, and pretty. Little ponds ringed with cattails, and even a few Canadian geese. I came to a store about 6 pm. I talked to a local man, who was also mystified by the weather, and who claimed it had got down to 38 degrees at his place the night before. It wasn’t much warmer here, even though I had descended considerably. And there was no place to spend the night. So I took the final step. I grabbed a purse-sized bag with my journal and a few other necessities, stuffed some granola bars and an apple in the pockets of my coat, and dumped the rest. If I was going to walk on roads, through towns, I could travel much lighter. I gave my big backpack to some guys I saw in a nearby parking lot. And I set off for Damascus. 

The sky still threatened. I was worried it might rain, but the walk was nice and I was warm. I didn’t think I would make it to Damascus before 10:30 pm, and I doubted that I would be able to find a room, but in any case walking was better than sitting in the cold dark. I passed sheep, cows, and horses. A grade school softball game. A farmer cutting hay. Then, after four miles, a beat-up pickup stopped, though I hadn’t been asking for a ride. My savior was an old, round, grizzled man, with a dirty cap and a full mountain-man beard. He was half-drunk, I think. But he got me to Damascus by 8 pm, and by 9:30 I was showered and in bed at “The Maples” bed-and-breakfast.

I awoke the next morning to a flawless pale blue sky. The tempest was past. Then I walked downstairs, and bumped into Geezer and Half and Half, friends from the trail. An extravagant breakfast followed. It was like a dream. 

Continued...

a surrender - 17

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter three, "into the wilderness")

By this time I had been on the trail for over a month. My body was feeling strong and I felt like I could handle myself in the woods, and I even felt more sure that somehow I would continue walking once I got off the trail. I just didn’t know how or when to take that step. 

With that on my mind, and exhausted from a long day of walking, I fell asleep early, though rain had started to fall hard on the tent. But I didn’t sleep long. With the rain an unexpected cold front moved in, and I awoke shivering at 1:30 am. Unable to get back to sleep, I sat up in the cold dark with all my clothes on, even my poncho wrapped around me, for four hours, waiting for the light. The wind blew drops of water from the trees and when I turned on my flashlight I could see my breath. Finally I said a prayer and stepped out. There was heavy fog, wind, and the temperature was in the low 40s. I ate and left quickly, hoping to escape the cold by descending (I was at 4000 feet). But the freak cold lasted all day. Cold, wind, fog, dripping trees, soggy ground. I had to walk to stay warm, being careful not to work up a sweat, because I quickly became cold each time I stopped and I needed my clothes dry for warmth. It was the coldest day since I had started on the trail. I wore three shirts, including my wool one, and long pants. All day I blew clouds of vapor. And this was June, in the South. Very strange.

I stumbled along for a few hours, feeling very fatigued but warmer. When I’d come down about 500 feet, it seemed a little warmer and I was so tired I felt I could hardly go on, so I lay down for a rest. I think I slept about thirty minutes. The cold woke me up, and I staggered to my feet and continued, somewhat refreshed by the nap. I don’t remember much of the walking after that. There were still about 25 miles to the next big town, Damascus. That would take me at least a day and a half. I had had little sleep, and the cold night ahead of me seemed threatening. I saw that I needed to sleep during the day, if I could, since the chill of night seemed impossible. I also thought of walking at night for warmth, but that didn’t seem wise in the dark woods on a narrow, winding trail marred by rocks and roots. I was getting nervous.

By lunch, the weather seemed even a little worse. The wind had increased and it felt colder. Still foggy. I made hot chocolate, which warmed me briefly. And I began to try to think of other options, other ways to get to Damascus. The distance seemed impossibly long, still almost 18 miles by trail. But there was a road in three and a half miles, where I had planned to camp that night. I considered leaving the trail early, even walking at night if necessary. I was very tired and this weather was serious. The easy, five-day, 50-mile “stroll” to Damascus that I planned had become the biggest challenge I had encountered so far. The rain of the previous weeks had been a minor inconvenience―this cold and exhaustion were threats.

Continued...

a surrender - 16

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter three, "into the wilderness")

If I was actually going to follow that little idea lurking in the back of my mind, though, physical preparation wasn’t enough. I felt like I needed spiritual preparation too. I didn’t want to end up like Peter, sinking, in very deep water.

When Jesus reached out to Peter and caught him, he had called him “you of little faith.” I already knew that faith meant more than just believing something that I couldn’t see, something that couldn’t be proven. It meant more than just believing God existed. That was easy, and it cost nothing. It was like believing the Appalachian Trail was two thousand miles long, or believing that the shelters were located where the map said they were. That belief in itself wasn’t worth much of anything. But it started to mean something when you actually started climbing that first mountain, when you saw how far the woods stretched in every direction, when you started to feel truly alone. When your water was almost gone. Then it mattered if the next shelter was where the map said it was. Or if the next town was close enough for your food to last. Real faith was like that, I knew. Not just believing that God existed, but believing that God existed and was near and would catch me. And believing it enough to step out of the boat when Jesus said, “Come.” 

I thought about faith during those weeks in the wilderness. How much was “enough”? I was not a natural risk-taker. If I was going to step out of the boat, I wasn’t going to be doing it for thrills, and I definitely didn’t want to sink. But how would I know when I was ready? 

At the trail shelters there were log books. Hikers would write notes there, talking about what they had seen, or encouraging other hikers, or leaving a message for a friend a day or two behind them. The log books were usually pretty interesting reading. For some reason, I started writing some words of Jesus that I liked:

Whoever finds their life
will lose it
and whoever loses their life
for my sake
will find it.

I don’t know, it sounded deep and impressive and not too religious. Like a riddle for people to think about while they walked.

I often thought about that riddle myself. If I manage to find my life, I lose it. And to truly find my life, I have to lose it. Then I remembered that dark moment in the monastery garden, when I was waiting for the monks’ answer. When I suddenly realized it was an utterly lost cause, my life was in pieces, and there was nothing I could do. I was alone in the dark, broken and helpless. But in that terrible emptiness there was something powerful moving, coming for me, and I didn’t resist it, I let it take me. Not in despair, but in hope. I let it take me. And then suddenly I understood, I had the courage to return home and face prison. And then I was free. Looking back, I believed that I had been freed by the power of God. And that moment in the darkness, that surrender, had been a moment of faith.

That meant faith was not something I could get more of by trying harder.

Faith was a surrender.

Continued...

So, so long we walked

Then came my night of anguish

But the promise

lives

(previous years' Christmas haikus begin here)