a surrender - 41

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter six, "there are no heroes in the kingdom of God")

The weeks that followed were hectic and fun. I remember enjoying coffee and breakfast sandwiches, egg and Canadian bacon on fresh-baked biscuits, with our guests out on the front porch, warmed by the sun after a cold night. I remember not being able to hear while I was talking on the phone, because all the people at supper were laughing so loudly. I remember Heather playing a board game one evening with four boys in the dining room—and trying to keep the two-year-old from stealing the pieces—while the other guests ate popcorn and watched a movie in the living room. I remember a lunch guest happily firing up the grill out back to cook some steaks he had found somewhere. And I remember hearing a young woman crying with relief when she heard she could stay on our couch. She was trying to move away from an alcoholic husband, and four other places had turned her away. I remember watching Heather carefully sew a torn down-filled jacket so we could give it to one of the guests. I remember surprising a homeless couple by inviting them in to eat the pizza I had just made, when they knocked on the door as we were sitting down to supper. I remember hearing a guest offer to come back and volunteer when he and his wife move into their new apartment. He had already cooked for us, washed dishes, and scrubbed our porch, where he had been sleeping.

And I remember James. He sometimes slept in our back yard, and we would find his power wheelchair on the porch, plugged in. His legs were missing, just below the knees. We heard James had lost them after passing out on the train tracks one night. He had prosthetic legs that he could walk on, but they seemed uncomfortable to him as he lurched around. I saw him here often, helping out at the lunch meal, cleaning up and mopping. I remember him clearing the table while I ate. But he didn’t have his prosthetic legs on then. He was moving around the big table on his knees, taking people’s plates when they were done and wiping the place clean for the next person. Quietly, on his knees. 

Continued... 

a surrender - 40

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter six)

 

there are no heroes

in the kingdom of God  

Our new home was a homeless shelter. It was a big, old house, with the upstairs rooms available to women and children who needed a place to stay. Downstairs there was a big kitchen, where meals were prepared by volunteers, some who lived there, like us, and many others who came for a few hours each week. Lunch each day was served to whoever showed up at the house, usually a pretty big crowd. Breakfast and supper were just for the people living there, the women and children, and us resident volunteers. The idea was that people who came for help were welcomed into our home. We lived with the people we served.

When Heather and I arrived, the volunteers were still preparing to reopen the house after a month-long break. So we had a little time to settle in. Before we were ready, though, while we were still cleaning and making plans, there was a knock on the door. 

I opened the door, and met Richard and Cassie. They said they had nowhere to stay; a pastor had paid for a motel room for two nights but they had to leave this morning, and there was no room in the other shelters. I wasn’t sure what to say. Our house reopening was four days away, and even then we only accepted women and children. But then I had an idea. I discussed it with the other volunteers. Could Richard and Cassie both stay, just until the house opened, if I took responsibility for their needs? The others agreed, and I felt flushed with excitement. I was really helping someone. And so I started down a long, bumpy road with Richard and Cassie.

Continued... 

a surrender - 39

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

I didn’t think I would ever have a family of my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it was just that I didn’t think anyone would want to marry me. I had nothing, and thought I would probably always have nothing. And my life seemed so unstable and uncertain, I just couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to start a family in those circumstances. So I just accepted that. And I enjoyed my relationships with people in the community, including my new friendship with Heather. I felt like we were in God’s family together.

In the weeks that followed, there were more long talks with Heather. One evening, we came back to the house after a walk together, just in time for supper. But as we climbed the steps to the big porch, we were so deeply engaged that we just kept talking. I noticed through the window that the meal was starting, but still we talked. Occasionally someone from the table peered questioningly at us. By the time I finally said goodbye to her and came into the house, supper was over. 

Heather wasn’t put off by my life choices, not even the walking. She had actually imagined doing something similar herself once, but had reluctantly decided against it because of the dangers for a woman traveling that way alone. She had a strong sense of the corrupting influence of wealth. She liked what Jesus said about money and power, like I did. And our long conversations about how Jesus lived didn’t leave her feeling scared or guilty, like they seemed to with most other people. They left her feeling refreshed and excited. They left me feeling the same way.

I remember the day she told me to keep her teacups. She liked to serve tea to friends, and had a simple but elegant tea set, hand-painted with blue dragonflies. One day, after sharing tea in my tiny room, the only single room in the house, she left two of her tea cups behind. The next day, when I asked her if I should bring them to her, she said no, I could hold onto them. “I’m sure we’ll be having tea again soon,” she said.

And I remember kissing her, on a wooden bench in the corner of a small city park in the spring. With a tree for our canopy, filled with tender blossoms, occasionally casting their soft, pink petals into our laps.

Soon we were wondering if there was a way we could have a life together, and a family. We didn’t know if it was possible, but we wanted to try to find a way.

And we wanted to try to make a difference in the world. We were young and eager to confront the wrongs we saw around us in society. Wasn’t that what Jesus did? We thought his followers should do the same. I remember during that time copying down a quote by Leon Bloy: “Any Christian who is not a hero is a pig.”

So we left the community and set out to be heroes.

Continued... 

a surrender - 38

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

I had thought a lot about family over the past year. I had had a good family experience while I was growing up. And this community offered a good experience of family also, a family that was a chosen one, based on a person’s own beliefs and convictions. Both of those seemed good to me. But I had also experienced something more unusual, an experience of family that had surprised me, because it was among people I had not chosen and had not been born to. People that I had never met, yet who had welcomed me into their homes and had treated me like a brother. People who seemed to know my needs before I asked. People I recognized as family by their spirit and their actions. It made me think of Jesus’ words, when he heard that his mother and brothers were looking for him. “Who are my mother and my brothers?” he replied. And gesturing at the people gathered around him, listening to him, Jesus said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.”  

This family that Jesus was talking about seemed to be God’s family. All those who did what God wanted were included in God’s family. It wasn’t their birth that determined it, or becoming part of some organization, or their common interests or convictions. It was God who determined it. Only God could decide who was in and who wasn’t. And the purpose and the nature of this family was determined only by God. “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.” Only those who are doing what God wants are God’s family. And everywhere that people are doing what God wants, God’s family is there, which is what I had experienced again and again. 

I remember one of the older members of the community once describing the “life cycle” of human communities. He said a community is like a living thing. It is born, then grows bigger and stronger, then eventually it weakens and dies. I thought about that. It reminded me of my thoughts about organizations, that they all eventually collapse and disappear. But when I thought about the family that Jesus described, it seemed different. It was God’s family. It existed because of God. Its life depended on God, not people. So did it die, like every human organization or community? I didn’t think so. 

These differences of the family that Jesus talked about inspired me and stirred hope in me. Maybe there was a family that would never end, that would always be there for me. A family that I could always depend on, no matter where I was. A family that was open to all. A family led only and always by God. If this could be true, I didn’t think I could be satisfied with anything less.

Continued... 

a surrender - 37

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

The days that followed were a blur of nurses and tests and no new information. She felt stronger and grew impatient with nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Her muscles itched to be used. And the hospital had no answers for her. No one had come for her. Maria was faithful, even bringing her daughter a few times, and she liked them both. Missed them when they weren’t there. But she felt an increasingly urgent need to know more, to find her connection, her real life. 

Then, the day after Maria brought her some clothes, she just got up and walked out of the hospital. The sunshine felt good. But she didn’t know where she was going; she just followed the main street, hoping something would look familiar.

She hadn’t walked five blocks when someone approached her. “Ange… Hey, Ange!” She didn’t recognize the rough-looking woman, who was definitely talking to her. “Angel! Girl, where you been?” She didn’t know how to respond. “And what you doin’ out here? You gotta lay low, I thought thas what you was doin’. They’s lookin’ for you.”

She finally found her voice. “Who?” The young woman stared at her, unbelieving. “Whatchoo mean who? You knifed their girl. She dead now. So now they want you dead.” The woman looked around, then pulled her off the street into an alley. “But don’ worry, we got you covered. There’s a place you can go, jus’ let me get holda K and we’ll get you there. They won’ be able to touch you.”

She stepped back from the woman. “I don’t know… I don’t remember….” The woman had her phone out, making a call. “I got her. Yeah. Yeah, I know where it is. Okay.” She took another step back, looking to see if anyone was nearby, and said again, “I don’t know….” “Angel, trust me. You gotta do this. We ever let you down before? C’mon.” But when the woman took her arm, she pulled away. “Wait… hold on… who… I don’t know you.” That stopped the woman, her face darkening. “Angel, quit that. You known me since forever. I know you scared, but you gotta trust me.” When she showed no sign of moving, the woman took a step closer, lowering her voice. “The gang took care a you when your momma flipped and killed your brother an’ herself, and we’ll take care a you now. We the only family you got. So c’mon, we gotta get outta here.”

Her brother. Crying. Something stirred in the dark place inside her head. Slight at first, then rushing over her, pulling her in, gathering intensity until she thought she might throw up. She staggered a little, and the woman grabbed her. The grip was firm and sure. She felt power in the hands that held her, a fierce power in the gaze that urged her to follow. The only family you got. Momma flipped. You knifed their girl. She dead now. Your brother an’ herself. Only family you got.

“Angel… Angel!” She looked into the eyes of someone who knew her, who was holding her up, who would protect her. Her sister. Who knew her. “We gotta go. Now!” She felt like she was falling forward as they started to move, out of the alley and down the street. She stumbled, but the strong hand kept her upright and moving. 

The cars and people and storefronts flashed by them, indistinct, a wash of color. She fell faster. Then a sudden cry startled her and she tripped hard and hit the pavement.

When she looked up there was a child. A young girl, with tears in her eyes, her mother bent over her. Lifting her and gently brushing the dirt from her dress. “It’s okay, honey. See? Good as new.” The girl wiped the tears, then for a moment their eyes met. 

“Ange, c’mon!” She was lifted from the pavement by the strong arms, but then she didn’t move. And this time she answered the fierce gaze with a shake of her head. “You got the wrong…” She pulled away from the insistent grip. “I’m not who you think….” She turned and started the other way, ignoring the shouts.

Within a block, Christie found a pay phone. She pulled the phone number from her pocket.

Continued... 

a surrender - 36

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

After that, we would occasionally take long walks down to the lake and talk. Often about life in the community, or about Jesus. She was also very inspired by his life and teachings. Sometimes we talked about writing too, and she helped me with some of the stories I was working on. 

One of ones I liked best was called “Angel”:

“… finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it….” The rhythmic voice pressed into her head, then droned on, buzzing in the fog that surrounded her. And slowly the darkness lifted. Light crept through the haze, spreading with a pinkish glow, and then her eyes opened to life again.

As her vision found its focus, she saw the shape of a woman, her face averted. Then the woman suddenly turned, looked right at her, and smiled warmly. The droning voice clicked off. The woman’s voice was softer and richer. “Hello, honey. My name is Maria.”

She was in a hospital room, attached to beeping monitors and tubes poked into her arms. She didn’t remember how she had gotten here. She didn’t remember what had happened to her. The woman, Maria, told her that she had been in a fire, that she had saved Maria’s daughter and had come back for Maria but was unable to free her and was knocked out when part of the ceiling fell on them. She had been fearless, the woman said. A hero. Firefighters had arrived in time to pull her and Maria out of the house, but they had a hard time reviving her. Maria had been praying for her life. She tried to speak, croaking “I…,” then stopped, surprised at the strange sound of her own voice. The older woman nodded, waiting. “Who…,” she began again, then faltered, her voice dropping to a whisper, “do you know my name?” 

Christie. Maria told her she overheard the paramedics asking many questions when they got her breathing again, to make sure her brain was okay, but she had only answered, “Christie, Christie.” She didn’t remember that name. But when the orderly came and Maria had to leave, she saw it. The orderly removed her shirt to bathe her, and there on her arms were dark tattoos. On one arm a rose etched in red, drawn with blood dripping from the petals. And the other arm was wrapped with a band of thorny vines woven together, with elaborate lettering above and below: Domine Iesu Christe miserere mei peccatricis. She didn’t understand the words. But she saw the name.

After her bath, she slept. When she awoke, Maria was there again. This time the older woman spoke of herself and her daughter. They were leaving soon, moving far away to live near Maria’s relatives, where they would be safe. Maria was sure that the fire had been set by her ex-husband, and she wasn’t going to give him another chance. They had nothing left here anyway. 

“Where do you live, dear?” She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know where she lived, or even if she had a family looking for her. It was a horrible feeling, as if she had been thrust into a place where she didn’t belong… yet in some unknown way, she did. She needed a connection badly, a connection to her lost life. Something Maria couldn’t give. Something the hospital couldn’t give, either. The orderly had told her they had no identification for her, assuring her, though, that the memory almost always came back in time. “I don’t know.” It was all she could say to Maria, her voice trembling. “Oh honey, I’m sorry. Don’t worry about that. I’m sure that will be taken care of. Someone’s looking for you right now, you can be sure of that.” Maria took her hand. “And you’re always welcome with us, any time, for as long as you need. It’s just me and my girl now. We owe our lives to you.” The older woman’s eyes were wet. She began to look through her purse. “We’re not leaving for a week, if I’m not here call me, for anything… you could even go with us. You’re family now.” Maria gave her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “But I’m sure someone will come for you soon.”

Continued... 

a surrender - 35

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

Soon after I got back, I found out the young woman was now living in the neighborhood. We crossed paths a few times in the weeks that followed. I had started doing grocery shopping for a woman whose activities were limited by bouts of chronic pain, and one day when I dropped off the groceries, the young woman was there. Her name was Heather. She was helping the woman with her house cleaning and laundry. And then I saw her again at one of the weekly community discussions. I don’t remember the topic of conversation, but I remember making an incisive point, boldly—and not very politely—and then Heather, boldly and politely, explained that I didn’t know what I was talking about. That annoyed me, I’m sure. But I only remember being more interested in her.

Heather had also been cleaning the community church every week. Her uncle was the pastor. But then I heard she was looking for some help with that job, and I was still figuring out how I could help out in the community again. So I stopped by her house one day. When she answered the door, she didn’t seem too happy to see me. I started haltingly, and she looked a bit impatient, but I managed to explain that I was offering to do some of the church cleaning. When she realized what I was saying, her expression softened. “Oh,” she replied, with a small smile, “yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

As the weather got colder, I started combining my dog walking with the church cleaning. The border collie loved attacking the noisy vacuum cleaner while I worked, barking madly. It was fun for both of us. That’s what I was doing one day when Heather happened to come in to do her part of the cleaning. For quite a while, we each did our work quietly (except for the loud vacuum and the barking). Then the dog heard something and ran into the kitchen. And Heather came out with him. She was grinning and was apparently done with her work. So I said, “I heard you’re a writer. What kind of writing do you do?” And that question started a very long conversation. She had recently graduated with a degree in creative writing and was working on a novel. Like me, she liked the community and was helping out in various ways, and living in one of the shared households. She was younger than me, but we were closer in age than most of the other community members, the only two young people there at the time. And I had gotten more interested in writing lately. I’d even tried writing some short stories, though they weren’t very good. So we had a lot to talk about. We sat on the floor in the middle of the church for so long, both of us secretly needed to use the restroom badly, but neither of us wanted the moment to end.

Continued...

a surrender - 34

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

The community tried to provide an alternative to the individualism and isolation felt by many people in our society. Community members lived close to one another, sometimes sharing a house. They met together regularly for worship and prayer times and meals. They were committed to consulting one another before making important personal decisions that would affect others in the community. And they also shared all their income. Everything they earned went into a common fund, which paid for the needs of everyone in the community. They owned all their houses and cars as a group. And they gathered together to discuss and make all the major decisions about how community money would be spent. The hope was that people would be able to see themselves not as isolated individuals but as members of a large extended family, who took care of and depended on one another. They seemed to truly love each other, and it felt good to be among them.

I only saw that young woman at church, though. She didn’t seem to live in the neighborhood. 

The fall and winter passed, and I got used to my new routine. I would get up early to help my friend shower and get dressed, then help him with breakfast at a big table with the others in the house. The rest of my day was mostly free, and I read a lot and began writing more. Once a week I would cook supper for the ten people in the household. I helped with the grocery shopping and mowed the lawn. One of my housemates had a border collie, really smart and very well-trained, and I loved to take him for walks to the park or down by the lake shore.

But when the spring arrived, I was ready to start walking again. I planned to go east that year, to join some friends at a conference, but it would take me all summer to walk there and back, about 1600 miles. During that journey I had a chance to walk a few days with another pilgrim like myself, though he had been doing it for many more years. And then I returned to the community, to a very warm welcome. 

Continued...

a surrender - 33

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter five)

 

who are my mother

and my brothers? 

The first time I remember seeing her, she was happy, waving a big colorful flag near the back of the church, with the music loud and everybody singing. She would flick her head as she sang, sending her long brown hair flying like the flag.

I came to this church because I had heard about it from some friends. It was the church of a community of people who had chosen to live together in one neighborhood in this city, to try to share their lives together, based on the teachings of Jesus and the practices of the first Christians. It was a very close community, and I was recognized as a visitor right away. An older couple invited me to lunch after church. And when they found out how I had been living for the last few years, they quickly began looking for somewhere I could stay and help out in the community.

They soon found a place for me. One of the larger houses owned by the community was shared by ten people, mostly single, some older and some younger. One of the men who lived there had muscular dystrophy, and others in the household helped him. So I was invited to move in there. If I would be a caregiver for this man, I could live there without paying anything, meals included. This sounded just right for me. I had been looking for a way to be more helpful to others, especially in the colder months when I couldn’t walk. And the people in this community seemed to care about a lot of the same things that I did. So I stopped walking in the middle of that summer and agreed to stay. 

Continued...

a surrender - 32

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

The following Sunday was fun and memorable also. I came to a small church. And I was the only white person there. Everyone else was African American. The people were very welcoming and the worship was joyful. Then I was invited to join them for a meal after the service. Everyone was invited, but the dinner was at someone’s house, with just one large table in the kitchen. So we took turns. When one person finished eating, someone else took their place at the table, with the cook still cooking and continually refilling the serving bowls. There was lots of lively conversation and everyone seemed to be enjoying their time together. I did too.

Near the end of my walk that summer, I came across these words in one of my favorite books, by Fyodor Dostoevsky: 

Sometimes 
even if he has to do it alone, 
and his conduct 
seems to be crazy, 
a man must set an example, 
and so draw men’s souls 
out of their isolation, 
and spur them to some act 
of brotherly love…

That seemed to me a fitting description of my walks. At times, I felt that I wasn’t offering people anything more than the opportunity to do good. And that seemed like enough, because often God seemed very close to us in those moments. But these words also reminded me how often I had felt alone.

My many meetings with kind, welcoming people had convinced me that there was a love that could draw people together into a real family, no matter where or who they were. And I began to realize I was wanting more of that.

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

 

Continued...

a surrender - 31

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

After I returned to my parents’ house in the fall, I only stayed a short time before starting out again. This time I went further south, where it was warm enough to walk and sleep outside all winter long. I walked until I ran out of road. Then I came back for another short rest and started north again in the early spring.

This time I felt more connected to people than I had before. I passed through some towns I had visited in previous years. And I had met some people through the internet that were interested in my walks and the way God seemed to be supporting me. I could write to these new friends from libraries along my way. Many of my encounters with people on the road were similar to what I had experienced before. But there were also some happy surprises.

One Sunday evening I came to a little charismatic church, with a sign that said there would be a service soon. So I waited. No one showed up for the service, though, and I was getting ready to leave. Just then, several women arrived. They said they had come to dance, and invited me to join them. I’m not much of a dancer, but I enjoyed talking to them and seeing their unusual, physical way of praying together. It was beautiful, and it was also very much together. The dance was synchronized in parts and improvised in parts, a very charismatic form of worshiping God. It was inspiring to see how these women felt about God. Afterwards, many of them asked me questions, and one of the women invited me stay with her and her children that night.

She was a single mom, with two young kids. And another young woman lived with them also. They had met her at a homeless shelter, after a difficult start to her life, and eventually they had asked her to join their family. I was overwhelmed by the courageous kindness of their invitation to me. I realized what a big risk it was, whenever anyone invited me into their home. But this little family didn’t seem scared, just full of life and happy to share it. After some more conversation the next morning, the mother took the kids to school, and I got ready to leave. But then the young woman asked if I would join her morning communion. She brought out some bread and wine. “It’s real wine,” she said, “don’t tell anyone!” We prayed some simple prayers together. Then ate and drank together. She said it was something she liked to do, and I was the first to join her. That made me feel even closer to that family. I really felt a deep love for them, a love that seemed to come from God. As I walked away that morning, it felt like God had brought me to them, saying, “Look, I’ve got someone here I’d like to show you.”

Continued... 

a surrender - 30

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

After a good rest with the Dominicans, I turned back east. There were long empty stretches of road again. More than once I felt pushed to the limit of what I could endure, weak and confused. And often I felt very alone. But there were some very bright moments during those weeks, as well.

In one town, a man rode up beside me on a bicycle and asked why I was walking. He was from India, his speech heavily accented. I told him I was a pilgrim. He immediately invited me to the motel he managed, right down the street. At the motel he asked me more questions. Then he explained, “I am not owner here. But I can give you good room; from God it comes through me to you. I like to help people who bring good into the world. This is you. Okay?” He told me to rest and then come back. Later, he and his wife asked me many questions about my walk, and about this country. They were only living here temporarily. They told me about India, their impressions of the U.S., and described how my walking was closer to Indian religious practices than to what they saw here. There were lots of pilgrims and monks and meditation in India, they said. At supper, his wife served me, the guest, before they ate: curry rice and vegetables, a spicy bean soup, and pickled mangoes. She was very humble, and shied away from my thanks. They were Hindu, I gathered. But the man seemed to have investigated other religions too, to find the truth. He spoke about God’s generosity and love, and I could see it. Their openness and humble kindness exceeded that of most Christians I'd met. They treated me like a brother.

Continued...

a surrender - 29

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

The weeks that followed were physically challenging. As I moved further west, the towns were more spread out, with long stretches where there was nothing but grass and wind. I thought I must make a curious sight out there, a lone pilgrim with nothing around for miles. I never tried to get a ride. But twice during that time I was offered a ride by Spanish-speaking immigrants. They both said they knew what it was like to walk in the heat and the dust for days and days.

Then one Monday morning I found myself waiting outside a church with no food and just fourteen cents in my pocket. It was raining. And ahead of me lay many, many miles with no shelter and no towns. I was reluctant to take another step. I felt so helpless. Where was God?

Then a car arrived at the church. And another soon after. I was surprised, because it was very early, six in the morning. Another car pulled up and swung over near me, to ask why I was there. I said I was on my way to Denver, just waiting for the rain to stop, and briefly described my walk. That seemed to satisfy them, and they joined the others. It seemed like it was a gathering for some kind of youth outing. Then a few minutes later, two men walked over to me.

“Going to Denver, huh? Well, we’re going to Denver.” Then they offered to take me with them.

I couldn’t believe it. They were taking the young people from the church to a big amusement park, just a half mile from where I was headed. I had planned to visit the novitiate where I had started with the Dominicans. My novice master had invited me. And suddenly I was there, carried over two hundred miles before lunch time. So it didn’t matter that I had no food and only fourteen cents.

Continued...

a surrender - 28

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

On rare occasions, however, when someone responded especially badly, I did say something. One night I arrived at a church after dark. There were lights on and cars in the parking lot; some kind of meeting was going on. So I waited. When two men came out, I introduced myself and asked if I could sleep in the covered area beside the church. They sounded doubtful. One of them went to ask the pastor. When he returned, he was shaking his head.

“I know this doesn’t sound very Christian,” he said. “I know it sounds like we’re sending you away….”

“It doesn’t just sound unchristian,” I replied. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t even let me sleep outside on their sidewalk. “It doesn’t just sound like you're sending me away. You are sending me away.”

He started talking about insurance and the sheriff, and said something vague about vagrancy laws.  

I said I would leave. But I reminded him that Jesus had said, “When you did it to the least of my brothers and sisters, you did it to me.”

That seemed to bother him. “The bible says we should obey the authorities, who were instituted by God,” he shot back. 

“It seems God has put you in quite a quandary, hasn’t he?” was all I said. 

“Yes… he has…” the man replied quietly, as he walked away with his head down.

As I was gathering my few things, a group of people came out of the church, including an older man in a wheelchair, the pastor. “You understand the situation…” he began, when he saw me. He also mentioned insurance, and said he was concerned about what the sheriff would do if he found me sleeping there.

“What the sheriff does is up to the sheriff,” I replied softly. “I’m more interested in what you will do.”

Then another man stepped up boldly. He said he was in charge of church security and was quite willing to take responsibility for sending me away. There are laws against vagrancy, he said. Then added, “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“Jesus was not ashamed to be homeless,” I said, looking right at him, “and neither am I.”

Right then, an older woman stepped up behind the pastor and asked me, “Do you need a place to stay? We can take you to the place down the road….” Apparently she was the pastor’s wife, and she had just figured out what all this was about. She looked at him. “You know, the motel down there….”

The pastor immediately agreed. The man in charge of security went silent, and seemed to fade from the scene. The pastor and his wife drove me to the motel. When she took me inside to pay for the room, I thanked her.

“He really is a good man,” she told me.

“Sometimes our advisors lead us astray,” I replied, with a smile. “I’m just glad for him and for the church that he has you for an advisor.”

Continued...

a surrender - 27

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

I remembered that those were the kinds of people Jesus had been drawn to. The ones on the edges of society. The weak ones. They were the ones that seemed most eager to hear and believe what Jesus was saying. Maybe because he was saying things like, “Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” And, “Blessed are the lowly ones, for they will inherit the earth.” Jesus said he had come “to proclaim good news to the poor.” Later, I learned he was referring to the anawim. It’s a Hebrew word meaning the poor, the weak, the oppressed, who looked to God for help. And those were the ones who heard Jesus’ words gladly. Jesus urged people to depend on God instead of depending on their own strength, and promised that God would help them. That was good news to the anawim. Because they didn’t have any strength, they didn’t have any power in society. To people who had wealth and power, Jesus’ words didn’t sound so good. But for many people who were weak and helpless, letting themselves be lifted and carried by God’s strength, the surrender of faith, was much easier.

Jesus didn’t just help and encourage the anawim, though. He was one of them. He also was poor and weak. Intentionally so, it seemed, since Jesus did not accept the power that could have been his. And in the end, he was left alone, rejected and humiliated. Executed with criminals. The life of the anawim, depending on the power of God, the life of faith, was the life that Jesus chose.  

And so that was the life I wanted to live. I didn’t know exactly how I could do that, but I wanted to try, and I was young and had little to lose. So I was trying this life on the road. I didn’t know how long I could continue, but it seemed like a good start, learning the life of the anawim, the life of faith.

Most of the time, when I was walking, people saw me simply as a homeless person. They would often look at me funny in a library or a store, or shy away, or call the police if they saw me sitting outside. Sometimes the police took me to a homeless shelter. Those were not very pleasant places to stay. If I happened to be approaching a car stopped on the road, I sometimes heard the door being locked. I tried to keep myself as clean as possible and be as polite as possible and ask for little or nothing, but people still made assumptions. It didn’t feel very good to see how I looked in most people’s eyes. But I tried not to say anything critical to people who treated me poorly. I thought it was good for me to feel what it means to be an outsider, a lowly one in society.

Continued...

a surrender - 26

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

I remember a couple days that stood out for me on that journey. I came to a small church in the evening, thinking I might stop there for the night. Then I noticed someone was there. So, as I usually did, I introduced myself and asked if I could sleep outside the church that night. The man I asked turned out to be the janitor. He called the pastor, but it sounded like the pastor wouldn’t allow me to stay on the church property. So the man made another call. Then he turned to me and told me that his wife said I could come to their house. 

Their house was not very big. It was just one large room, with a small kitchen built onto the back. The bathroom was basically a large outhouse beside the house. When we arrived, I thanked his wife, who was preparing supper, and met his adult son, who was visiting them, with a friend. Because of the extra visitors, there were mattresses laid all over the floor of the one room. So we sat on the front porch while we all ate together. I remember them telling me about their many encounters with scorpions, and telling me to watch out for them. Then they invited me to stay for the night. There was no room to sleep inside, however, so I slept on the covered porch, and their dog slept beside me. It rained hard that night. When I woke up the next morning, their little cat was curled up next to my head.

That morning I rode with the man on his way to work, and we talked. I found out he had recently pawned an old air compressor to get money for food. The whole experience stunned me. They were so poor, yet had gladly shared with me the little they had. And there would be more surprises for me that day. In the late afternoon, I was walking through a town and a woman ran out from a bar, waving at me. I stopped and she smiled. “I saw you walking by,” she said, “and I wanted to give you this.” She had a five-dollar bill in her hand. “I’m just an alcoholic,” she continued with a laugh, “but I thought maybe this would help you.” I smiled and thanked her. It seemed like a big help to me, since I had nothing for my supper. But before I found a place to buy food, I came to a church and an evening service was just starting. So I went in. And after the service, there was a potluck supper. There I met many people, but most of them seemed to shy away from me except for two young girls, about six or seven. They asked me many questions about my journeys, where I had been, where I slept, why I was walking. Then they asked if I would come to their house. When they brought their mother into the conversation, though, she didn’t like that idea. So they went to the pastor. The pastor didn’t like their ideas either. But then she did agree when I asked her if I could sleep on a porch outside the church. Laying on that porch in the dark, I thought back over the last two days. I had been helped by a poor family, an alcoholic, and two young children.

Continued...

a surrender - 25

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

It was a short ride the next day to my friend’s house, then after several days rest, I started south. It had been a month since I left the monastery, and my journey south would take two more months. My experiences with people continued much like the first month of the journey. Occasionally I went a day without food, but those times were almost always followed by enthusiastic welcomes by people that left me overwhelmed with gratitude and encouraged to go on. For several days, I stayed at the Dominican seminary where I had studied. Many of my friends were still there and they welcomed me gladly and kindly, eager to hear my stories. I continued to join Christians of all varieties, wherever I found them. Some embraced me with kindness and generosity and some ignored me or sent me away, but I began to clearly recognize the spirit of God, the spirit of love, where it appeared among them, the spirit that was the same no matter what language they used or what the sign said on the door. Police stopped me many times to ask questions and check my ID. Often they chased me off the place where I had sat down to rest. But sometimes they came up with ways to help me, once even inviting me to sleep in the waiting room of the police station, with a pillow and blanket from the jail. There were some longer and hotter days of walking in the South. Once I endured eighteen straight hours of rain when a tropical storm came inland. So I was tired when I finally arrived at my parents’ house, after an 1800 mile journey from the monastery. Tired, but also thrilled. It seemed impossible that I could have made it so far, since leaving the monastery with two peanut butter sandwiches and three apples.

I spent the next few months with my parents. This was partly to set their minds at rest, but also to clarify my own thoughts while the colder months passed. The next spring I was able to start walking earlier in the season, slowly working my way north with the warming weather. I traveled twice as far that year, crossing much of the country.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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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. 

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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.

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