There is was. In black and white with the little bitty numbers on the onion skin paper. God knocking me over the head. Again.
"Break up your unplowed ground."
I mean Jeremiah had a ton to say this morning about evil and sin and mocking God. He would never have been voted president by shaking his finger at the camera and saying, "America, you have grown fat and sleek, and your evil deeds have no limits." Jer 5:27-28, minus "America."
Eyeroll. Change the channel. Ah, there, a rerun of Friends.
But when you open the Bible with the attitude that God IS going to tell you something you NEED to hear, and that the message with supercede time and culture, then you can see truth bleeding all over the page and into the present age. Into your life.
"Break up your unplowed ground."
OK, where am I hard, dense, packed down, trampled on, thorny, bristly, apathetic?
The sharp blade severs the soil, cutting all those weedy roots woven like a tiny prison, turning up fresh loam, loosening what was tight like a gag. But only because I consent. Because I'm tired of claiming only the comfy parts of the Bible like blessing and unconditional love and grace, thinking I can write my songs, and homeschool my children, and make my home a haven, and serve when it is convenient.
David Platt in Radical and Jen Hatmaker in Seven and Katie Davis in Kisses from Katie point out my unplowed ground. What am I doing? What am I planting? Why is this faith of mine so easy? What is the point of all this accumulated stuff? Where shall I go? How messy shall I get? How much shall I spend?
How bright might I shine?
How much might grow?
Last Thursday, Dave and I embarked on an adventure to the North Shore, beginning with a lovely night at the Inn at Palisades, complete with a breakfast of blueberry scones, smoked salmon, and a gorgeous view of Lake Superior. This was the sunrise that greeted us Friday morning...
Before we left for the trail head, I combed the river rock beach for smooth stones to bring home for the kids. I tried to memorize the color of the lake, like turquoise jewelry, with glints of sapphire and sparks of diamond, framed by fire-red sugar maples and weathered rock outcroppings. This was a sign of good things to come.
I soon traded thick down-comforters, bay window seats, and scones, for the few things I could fit in my backpack. First, a mummy bag for sleeping in 30 degree temperatures. We just studied the life of Queen Hatshepsut of ancient Egypt, the female pharaoh who wore a beard and called herself "him." I wonder if she ever laid in her sarcophagus before she died. That's what a mummy bag feels like. But it's warm, thank goodness.
I packed my sleeping mat, a few layers of clothes, wool socks, a towel, a water bladder, a book by Anne Lamott, which I didn't read but used for pressing colorful little leaves, a deck of cards, biodegradable toilet paper, and a water filter. I still can't believe I drank liters of water that trickled brown and skanky in narrow creek beds. My one luxury was Megan's furry Minnetonka moccasins for walking around the campsites. Oh, and a pack of Big Red. And Trader Joe's dark chocolate. I carried the tent poles, but Dave carried the rest, including all the food and cooking supplies.
Lesson #1: You don't need much.
We were only backpacking for 2 nights and 3 days, mind you. But we met a young woman who hiked the entire 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail with the same stuff we brought. Jesus tries to teach us to love things less and lean on each other more. Think how lightly he traveled. Why are we so convinced this is a bad
idea?
Lesson #2: What you do need is: water, food, shelter.
Christ promised to provide these things. Better yet, he promised to be the spiritual versions of these things. But like silly putty, we stretch our basic needs into misshapen and bloated wants, and suddenly they weigh us down, make us fat, become like chains around our wrists. What if I counted every individual item in my house? Every book, every plate, every art supply and piece of clothing. I think I would get discouraged and quit after one closet. Walking for 3 days with my bare essentials on my back proved something I choose to ignore. I am a glutton.
Lesson #3: Never say, "It's downhill from here."
I lost track of how many times I thought we had climbed the last hill of the day, only to round a bend and face another rugged ascent and equally precarious descent. Imagine climbing up and down and around the bluffs of Winona. Yeah, it's like that.
Occasionally there were actual wood or stone steps, but more often the surface of the trail was composed of tumbled rock, tree roots, or slippery gravel and leaves. Best not to get cocky and comfortable about your next step in life. Stay alert. But don't forget to stop for the view. The higher the climb, the better the view.
Lesson #4: Love the ones you're with.
Some people backpack alone, like our new friend, Ellie, who was on her 14th day of hiking the entire 200+ miles of the trail, but Dave and I leaned hard on each other for every task, from cooking to setting up camp, to closing hard-to-reach zippers, to guarding open-air latrines. He was full of gratitude that I consented to join him on this adventure, and I was full of appreciation for all his planning and confidence. At home we often settle into our roles and forget how much we need each other. The wilderness erased that. For a few days, at least.
Lesson #5: Close your eyes and memorize.
This is a relatively new practice I've adopted. It started on the 4th of July a couple of years ago. I came home that night and wrote a song about memorizing the details of that breezy, balmy, firefly-rich, laughterful night with friends. Now I purposefully stop and close my eyes in certain moments, memorizing sounds, smells, textures, emotions; breathing deeply and chanting in my head, "Memorize this. Memorize this." It makes a difference.
I suppose I should stop here, though I'm sure I could dig deeper and wax on. A final thought...Whenever we are in the car together, my Boy Becoming Man and I listen to the audio recording of Do Hard Things by Josh Harris. This wilderness trek was a hard thing. But, frankly, the harder thing is to apply the lessons I've learned on the trail to my comfortable, habitual, excessive, everyday life. Oh, to be who God created me to be by loving the things of this world less and the people of this world more.
