Tourist or Pilgrim

During the summer, Chet and I developed a new routine.  He’d come home from work and change into walking clothes while I loaded the kayak. Off to Cane Creek, where he’d help me launch the kayak, then he’d be off power walking the trails. We carried walkie talkies, helpful to check on where I should pick him up. In October, the park began closing earlier, so we couldn’t make it after work. My mom came to visit and said it was too chilly for her to consider kayaking. One thing and another and I didn’t get out until this past Wednesday.

I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to go, but all doubts vanished when I launched the kayak into the still water. The bright blue sky was edged by a scrim of haze. The trees around the edge were wearing fall colors. If the colors in New England are fresh out of the crayon box, here they tend to be more like water colors. The cormorants and anhinga coming in for the winter were perched on their favorite power tower. They don’t mingle with the vultures on the other tower.

Some one asked me recently if I took pictures while kayaking.  I remembered what one of my seminary professors said, “You can tell the pilgrim from the tourist by how many cameras are carried.” I tried taking pictures once and found that even when it seemed calm, my kayak was bobbing up and down. Really good pictures would require more equipment and more worries about it falling in. No picture can capture the panoramic views of my eyes, the sounds, the smells. I go out because something in me needs to be outdoors. I go as a pilgrim; I breathe deeply; I pray.

I realized in writing this that difference between a tourist and a pilgrim is similar to the difference between a fan and a follower. A pilgrim sets out looking for signs of God’s presence. Do you have a place you consider a pilgrimage spot?

Back at Last!

A long and weary time has passed since I loaded my boat and headed for the lake. This spring, what seemed like a mystery illness spiraled out of control. Bit by bit I lost ordinary things: kayaking, driving the car, walking briskly, crafts, concentration enough to read serious books.  Test after test came back positive. A friend said, “I’ve never seen anyone cry because their blood work came back normal!”  My sister took me to Florida to visit Mom. I had to borrow my step Dad’s walker or lean on a shopping cart. Only short trips were possible, not much energy, not much stamina. Time for “finger nail faith.” The chorus that starts “Father I adore you…” kept running through my head.

In early July I saw a neurologist. I handed him four pages describing the history of the illness. He said, “I think your sleep study was read wrong and you’re not getting the deep levels of sleep that you need. Take this pill in addition to what you’re already taking and do nothing for the next five weeks. Chet drove me to the pharmacy and then home. Finally, a glimmer of hope.

Today, after the five weeks were up, I loaded my kayak and headed for the lake. I paddled slowly, but enjoying every moment, at times, I just drifted. Enough hope to float my boat, thanks be to God!

Spring on the Lake

I went out paddling in the chilly breezes on Friday afternoon. Each trip has some beautiful moment to treasure. The secret is keeping open eyes and ears. Friday I didn’t see many birds. Most of them are busy with nests and young families. But I did see a tiny, silver-green beech leaf just unfolding from its copper sheath. It was breathtakingly beautiful and I could have easily missed it.

            Sunday afternoon was warmer, shirt sleeve weather. I counted fourteen motor boats, a row boat, three kayaks and a canoe. So I headed east towards one of the inlets, too shallow for the bigger boats. On the way, I saw something I’d never noticed before, beech trees in bloom. The blossoms were hung like small, fuzzy cream colored cherries. Even though I’ve paddled around the lake for over three years, there’s always something new to see or learn. Last fall, I encountered beech nuts for the first time. I knew in theory they existed, but the squirrels always got there first. These were hanging over the water. Inside the bristly husk, the nuts were tiny equilateral triangles on all sides. (I’m sure there’s a proper term for this figure, but I never took geometry!) Only the size of half my small fingernail, they were delicious. Maybe there will be more this fall.

Over the years I’ve found that if I don’t look for the small miracles, my eyesight gets distorted and I miss the big ones. Practicing thanksgiving for small things helps me weather storms and be ready to praise God for the big things. What’s lovely in your world today? What are you praising God for?

Uphill Both Ways

I made it to the lake three times last week. Friday was amazing. The forecast was for partly cloudy, but instead it was a deep blue sky, cobalt blue water and a brisk wind coming out of the north. I struggled east against it until I paddled into a sheltering inlet.

Coming back, I decided to change my route plan so I would be in the lee of the trees on the north side. I pulled up my neck gaiter, fastened the top of my paddling jacket and headed into the wind. As I came around a corner heading west, there was the eagle. Not circling or soaring, but diving on a flock of ducks. I stopped to watch. He’d drop out of the sky and the ducks would come up off the water quacking in alarm. The eagle would swoop up. The ducks would re-assemble and the eagle would drop towards them again.

An eagle will eat duck, but this one looked like he was just harassing them. He flew off west and I resumed paddling. I saw him again later, perched on a dead branch near the water, looking like he was posing for a wildlife magazine: “See my noble profile!”

Out of the sheltering tree line, I discovered that the wind has shifted around to the west, north-west. So I had a challenging paddle back to the boat ramp, uphill both ways, as it were. Just when I think I have figured out which way the wind’s blowing, it changes.

Isn’t life like that? Just when we think things are going well, something comes along. But no matter which direction the wind blows from or how hard it blows, Jesus’ love for us never changes. He knows the storm and he knows us. I love the line from a song, “Sometimes he calms the storm and sometimes he calms his child.”

Out in the Cold

The week before Thanksgiving and the beginning of Thanksgiving week were lovely for kayaking. The water was cold enough that I needed my boots, but long sleeved shirt and long pants were perfect—not melting hot, not chilly cold. Then the weather snapped from fall to winter.

I was out Tuesday and Wednesday of this week. My new, light weight wool base layer works great with my waterproofed wind pants and jacket. Paddling keeps me warm. No time now, though, for meditative drifting or picnics up an inlet. I go down to the lake, slide in my kayak and paddle briskly for an hour.

A flock of thirty or so seagulls has come for the winter, giving a strange sense of incongruity. Seagulls in fresh water, I feel like I should be smelling the salt and hearing the beat of the waves. At least a hundred cormorants are wintering. I’ve seen the ospreys, a pair, I think. Last week I saw two bald eagles soaring together.

Even in winter, there’s a lot going on. One day the lake was so still that I felt like I was paddling through the blue sky. Yesterday a mist turned the shore line and the trees into a delicate water color. The same lake, yet it’s always different from day to day. I paddle; I breathe deeply; I’m grateful to God for the loveliness of creation. Where have you seen loveliness lately?

Down the River, Up the Creek

I don’t get tired of paddling on the lake at Cane Creek Park. Each time I go out, there are different cloud and wind patterns, different flowers, and different birds and other creatures to watch for. But recently, I wanted to explore somewhere different.

Last Friday afternoon, a friend and I set off from the Route 9 boat ramp in Lancaster SC. The first thing I sensed was that my kayaking friends were right. The Catawba is no place for a lone paddler. It is big. Beneath the smooth surface, there’s a sense of power. Along the shores are huge snags in which the current could tangle a boat. Snags on the lake, I just go around or untangle myself easily without the extra danger of a strong current.

We went down the wide river, looking for the outflow of Cane Creek. We knew that it came in across from an island. Several small streams entered. We wondered, could that be it? Or that one? Then the opening swept into view on our left. At this point, it was no longer a little creek. It was a river.

Up we paddled, through swamp at first. Lovely contrasts of green, varieties of texture in the plant life on the shore line. We were almost to a big bend where the land rose in steep little hills on the left when my companion said we’d better turn back, since she had to be home by 5:30. I said, “Please can we go far enough so we can see around the bend?” So we did.

With regret, I turned down stream and we slid down to the main river ever so much faster than we had paddled up. I looked regretfully down stream as we turned into the Catawba. So much more river running down to the sea. And so small a boat.

On the river of life, may God bless you with friends for the journey.

Simmering Summer

I was out on the lake yesterday afternoon. The sun was hot. The occasional breeze was hot. The water that dripped off my paddle was as warm as a tropical river. In the trees, the cicadas buzzed. Cicadas always sound hot to me. Summer in the Carolinas, yet there were signs of change. The elegant cardinal flowers were blooming. The green in the swamp maple leaves was fading. A single, perfect yellow leaf drifted down from a tulip poplar and rocked gently on the mirror smooth water. The orb weaving spiders had webs hung in the bushes. The wild grapes were beginning to turn purple. That raises the question, if I want to pick grapes, how can I pick the minimum number of spiders? I’d like that number to be zero!

When I’m tired, my mind often defaults to the horrible “what ifs”. I’ve learned to recognize that tiredness can trigger this undesirable behavior, and I quickly ask for forgiveness and for Jesus to change my mind. When it happened recently, the word to me was, “Live in the now, not in the maybe.” Living in the maybes and what ifs means I’m missing the present moment. So I’m working on living in the now, enjoying this hot, sticky day without looking for fall. But the signs are there, it is coming. Jesus urged people to pay attention to Kingdom signs, as well as weather signs. We have His word on it; He will make all things new. We can’t know the day or the hour, but we know a new kingdom is coming. Live in the now, but keep your eyes open for signs of His coming.

Putting it Off

I’ve been reminded that the longer you put off doing something, the harder it is to actually get it done. Especially if there are no deadlines involved. The problem started over spring break with a kayak adventure that left me speechless.

The park and lake were crowded on a Sunday afternoon. Looking for some quiet time sounded like a good theory, but wasn’t working out. First, a large pontoon boat full of party people hailed me, “Come aboard, Sweetie. We have single men!” I paddled past in silence. Then I heard a motor start and they cruised up beside me. “Come aboard and have a cold one. We’re following you! We love your hat!” I kept going and headed for water too shallow for them to follow. Up one of my favorite inlets, I drifted, admiring the wild, pink azaleas. I tried to pray but, out on the road, happy motorcyclists were celebrating spring by shifting rapidly up through the gears. I went home feeling bad. First, I had nothing either spiritual or clever to say to the fellows on the pontoon boat. (My friends’ immediate reaction to the story—“They must have been drunk!”) Then I couldn’t clear my mind enough of the distractions to pray. It took a couple of weeks to realize I was suffering from false guilt, not the kind that leads to repentance and renewal, but the nagging sort that keeps you from seeing real problems. I didn’t write about the events. I have still been kayaking regularly, but not writing. So I decided to just sit down today and write something, finally.

Leigh and I had an idyllic trip in the spring. We went up the main inlet as far as possible, picnicked on a gravel bar, the banks covered in spring beauty, trout lilies and wild violet. After lunch, she held her hand out patiently and tiny blue butterflies sat on her fingers. We paddled downstream with her making up songs about how lovely it was. Then, out on the lake, a wasp flew by her. She freaked. I found out that the advertisement was correct; the double seat kayak I bought is remarkably stable. She cried, tried to crawl under the seat, tried to crawl over the seat, screamed and implored me to stay away from the shore. It was an unhappy ending to a beautiful day. She didn’t want to go out again. I was disappointed.

Yesterday she had gathered enough courage to try again. So we set out with her and me in the double and Chet in the single. She wanted to show Grandpa her special gravel bar. Since we had a heavy rain storm Saturday night, the water was high enough to get up the creek. When we came to logs, she implored us to exert ourselves, to persevere—her words—and we squeezed under tree trunks and pushed floating logs aside. We made it up to the gravel bar where she skipped rocks across the little pool. No wasps, a much better trip. Even her discovery, while we were loading the kayaks on the truck, that her pink Crocs would not only float, but one of them was sailing away from the dock, didn’t ruin all the fun. I’ll admit, though, I wasn’t really cheerful as I pulled the single kayak back off the truck and assembled my paddle to chase after the sailing shoe.

For us, it was a delight to be out with her. I hope that she not only enjoyed the afternoon, but feels taller for confronting a fear successfully. The afternoon reminded me of a sign I saw last week that said, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”

Trial Run

Leigh came for the morning and worked her way swiftly through her school work. “Gramma, now can we go kayaking?” I went and stood in the front yard in shirt sleeves, checking the temperature by feel. I said, “Yes, let’s go try out the new boat.” I purchased a second hand double kayak a couple of months ago and it has been waiting and so has she. The words were hardly out of my mouth and she was standing by the truck holding her new paddle and our life vests, imploring me to hurry.

The boat is too large—fourteen feet and sixty two pounds—for the little wheels I strap on my single seat boat. So I backed down the boat ramp and slid it in. I suggested we head for the dam. Leigh said, “The swamp is much more interesting.” So we headed up one of the inlets. It wasn’t any more difficult to paddle than the single boat last year with her tucked in the front between my feet. She liked her youth sized paddle, but declared it too chilly to keep dripping water on her jeans. We kept an eye out for wildlife and litter. She’s developing a keen eye for both.

We paddled up an inlet, pulled the boat out and walked along the little stream. We came to a narrow wooden bridge, Leigh said, “Let’s just run back and forth and back and forth awhile. So we did, with my boots clomping and Leigh singing “trip, trap, trip, trap” as we crossed and re-crossed and crossed again. We followed the trail up to a meadow which she just had to run around. I didn’t run. My socks had slid down in my boot toes. That will do for a reason or for an excuse!

As we paddled back to the boat ramp, she asked if we could do it again, for a whole day this time. Lots of room to bring a picnic lunch, so we’ll find a day sometime soon. I think the new boat will be all that I’d hoped. And not just for Leigh and me, now I can bring someone else.

At Last!

I went out kayaking a week ago—the cold wind brought tears to my eyes as I crossed the lake. In the lee of the dam and up in the sheltered inlet, it was calm and almost warm in the sun. But it was beautiful and I needed to kayak. I was feeling twitchy, assailed by false guilt, the kind that doesn’t produce any actual change, just misery. I realized that an hour in my boat would probably cure it.

Today, oh lovely day! Actually warm and pleasant, I left home the wet suit. I packed a picnic in an orange dry bag. I filled one stainless steel thermos with hot tea, one with water. Boots on my feet, but no wool socks, no skirt on the kayak. I launched about 11:30 and headed east, up the lake, past a flock of gulls, under the power towers with the roosting cormorants and anhinga. I went carefully and quietly past the clumps of reeds at the upper end. Nesting Canadian geese are a force to be avoided! I slipped under the Potter Road Bridge and up the creek. Every trip up has different obstacles. The heavy rains had washed out the tree trunks and I made it up to where the rocks blocked the channel. There, listening to the music of water gurgling over rocks and the wind in the trees, I ate my lunch. It was idyllic, until I accidentally poured hot tea on my leg. Even that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for long. On the banks, tiny pale pink flowers with a thin red line on each petal were blooming, looking them up in my field guide at home, I discovered they are “spring beauties”.

I admired the large southern ash trees by the water. Jeremiah 17: 7,8 speaks of trees planted by the river bank that never fear the drought because they have sent their roots to the water. I love that picture, bearing fruit even in hard times because they aren’t dependant on rains. God has planted us by the river of His Word; we need to send our roots in that direction.

As I paddled back, I picked up litter. I’ve learned that it is more pleasing to pick up trash after lunch than to lunch among the empty bottles and cans. Back on the main lake, a brisk wind had picked up and I had to lean into paddling against it.

Out There Anyway

I went out kayaking on Monday, only the fourth time this year. Each time there has been a scrim of clouds in the west, the water grey with silver sparkles where the sun shone through weakly. Monday, the clouds were thicker, the lake still and smooth. The colors were muted, grays of tree trunks, dark green of the evergreens. Long rays of light streamed through cracks in the clouds. My grandmother used to say that this was the sun drawing water and was a sure sign of a storm. Old French legend calls the rays a stairway to heaven for souls going to God. Any way you look at it, it was lovely. The lake is full and running over, the little streams coming in with a chuckle of falling water. The brush alders along the shore have put out dangling yellow catkins, a sign of spring in spite of the lingering chill.

As I turned to return to the boat ramp, the clouds parted, the sun streamed out and blue sky and white clouds were reflected in the still water. Suddenly all the colors were brighter, sharper. I had thought of several reasons not to bother with kayaking on Monday afternoon. How glad I was that I went anyway! It got me to thinking, how much else do I miss by finding good excuses?

Pride Goes Before a Fall... In Temperature!

All through November and December, I’ve been bragging about how I’m committed to year round kayaking. I just put layers over my wet suit and off I go. Then someone left the back door to Canada open this week. I’m not kayaking with lows in the teens and “highs” creeping up on upper thirties. In fact, I’m not going outside much at all. A trip or two to the wood pile for more oak, ash bucket carried out to the compost pile and that’s about it. I sit here typing, one room removed from the wood stove and even in flannel lined jeans and a flannel shirt, I’m chilly. The cats are smarter. They’ve hardly left the living room for days. They have progressed this morning from the hearth rug to the chairs, must be warming up a bit in there. I miss kayaking, but not enough to go out at this temperature!

Foggy Morning

I’ve only made it out on the lake once or twice a week lately. No trouble with low water. The overflow pipe sounds like a jet engine. Up one of the streams that flows into the lake, the water was leaping in small falls over rock and tree root, something I hadn’t seen before.

The lake was wrapped in pale gray mist when I went out, deeply silent. When I stopped paddling, only the quiet chuckle of water under the bow broke the silence. I needed to be out paddling and praying. I don’t pray well in my house, too many things calling for my attention. The days and evenings have been full, all good stuff, but tiring and easy to lose focus in the middle of it all.

I paddled to the east end of the lake, around the island that was a peninsula all summer. Not many birds out, one blue heron, a group of mallards. The trees were gray, the evergreens almost black in the mist. I love the bare bones of trees in winter, each kind has a shape of its own and then each tree varies that a bit. The oaks, especially, seem to be lifting hands in praise. The few leaves clinging to beeches were a pale copper color. Some of the willow oaks still held onto yellow leaves. I look at their uplifted branches and remember Isaiah 61, “They shall be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord for the praise of His glory”.

The high water had floated some litter in reach. I filled the space between my feet. Litter annoys me, so I leave the park cleaner on almost every trip. I leave feeling virtuous. In a world filled with massive, insolvable problems, litter in the park is something I can have a small impact on.

No Fox Before Lunch

I was late getting a paddle on the lake because I had been asked to bless the opening hunt of the season for a local fox hunt club. It is lots of fun, like stepping into the pages of a British novel. The tall horses, the youngsters on sturdy ponies, the hounds milling around the hunt master’s horse, the red jackets, and in the middle of it all, Pastor Fran in alb and stole, there to pray before they loose the hounds and ride out. Then the alb got tossed in our car, and Chet and I climbed on the wagon behind the tractor to follow the hunt. We bounced across pastures and under the shadow of oaks, catching sight of one distant rider and seeing one lost hound that followed us back to the starting field. There was a hearty pot luck dinner laid out. No fox was seen, but a good ride was had by all. The fox, they explained to me, gets chased, but not killed. They ride for the fun of it and to keep alive an ancient tradition.

Soaring

It was late Saturday afternoon when I got to the lake, so I paddled down to the dam and back. The weather was warm and I wore only the boots from my winter gear. On the way back, a flock of turkey vultures were floating in high, lazy circle. Their flight feathers, lighter on the underside, were flashing almost white in the long rays of a late fall sunset. So lovely way up there!

I remembered our oldest son David coming home from eighth grade upset. He’d written a poem for English class and used the flight of the vulture as an image of something lovely. His teacher had marked it “inappropriate”. Vultures weren’t suitable for use in poetry. “But mom”, he protested, “They are beautiful when they fly. They’re only ugly on the ground. Why can I write poetry about eagles and not about vultures? What’s the difference?”

And the classic line, “It’s not fair!”

So watch the vultures fly. God made them beautiful when they are soaring as He created them to soar. God doesn’t make junk.

Out in the Cold

It was three thirty Sunday afternoon. I’d had lunch, a cup of strong Darjeeling tea, a ten minute nap and read a bit. The fire in the wood stove glowed. The cats were curled on the heart rug. Go out or stay in? Outside, it was chilly, breezy and drizzly. The lake was open again and on Friday I’d only had time for a quick dash down to the dam and back.

So I got out my life jacket and paddle, loaded my boat and set out. I wrestled the skirt onto the boat. With rubber boots on my feet, the skirt keeping my legs warm and dry, my waterproof jacket, snug life vest and my wool felt hat, I was ready.

The lake was gray, the sky gray, the trees dark. A brisk wind rippled the water. Paddling up against the wind, I was suddenly filled with delight. The warmth from within was different from sitting by the fire, but wonderful in its own way. My glasses caught the rain and the world looked like I was looking through pebbled glass. My chilly nose and finger tips made the rest of me feel warmer. Up my favorite inlet, out of the wind, I munched a mountain apple while drifting gently on the current, then back out into the wind.

Now I’m home again, with the fire in the wood stove, the cats curled by the hearth. Sometimes life is hard, but sometimes it is very good. Thanks be to God!

Little Woes

Sunday I got out my late fall equipment for kayaking, changed to the warmer life vest, got out the “skirt”. I arrived at the park, ready to paddle on the cool, damp afternoon. I opened the back door on the truck, no paddle, doing things differently and I forgot it. Back home, got the paddle and I returned. It was a lovely paddle, until I went to get back in the truck and found the little zip bag with my license and park permit gone. It was too late to look, so I went home. At home, I ran a load of towels and Chet said, “Why is there a puddle of water in front of the washer?”

First thing Monday morning, snuggly dressed in my wind jacket and boots, with the skirt in place, I set out to look for the little plastic bag. I knew it probably flew out when I pulled out my phone to check the time. I knew about where I was and which way the wind was blowing. So I paddled and searched. No little bag. But the sky was brilliant blue, the breeze was dancing the mist in circles, deer came down to drink.

It only took twenty minutes to get a temporary replacement for my license, but later that afternoon, the DMV office called and said to appear there before nine the next morning, because they had overcharged me. I drove home and called a repairman. The washer left with him, but he left a loaner. No news yet on the prognosis.

This afternoon I stopped at the ranger office to get a new park pass, only to find that the lake will be closed indefinitely as of tomorrow. Oh truly woe! The beauty of the paddle was off-set by wondering where else I could go, Cane Creek is so large, so close, so lovely.

Sabbath

Just since I was out on Thursday afternoon, the colors are coming in the trees. The colors are muted, partly by the cloudy day, partly by the fact the colors here aren’t as crayon bright as the mountains or northern states. The trees are still lovely with an occasional swamp maple flaming up, the burgundy of sweet gum and the yellow of beech. It is cooler, I began wondering about switching my sandals for rubber boots. A long sleeve shirt might have been good, but paddling for two hours warmed me. The green herons have flown away, some of the blue herons have moved on. It was quiet on the lake up at the far end, only the cries of birds disturbed by my passage.

Sunday afternoons are often quiet paddles. I’m not planning a message or learning Scripture. Sunday afternoons I find myself breathing deeply and just being at peace. I didn’t even make an effort to think of what I might write about, just enjoyed each view. On a sheltered bank, there was the last cardinal flower of the season; the salt bushes were fuzzy white. The wild asters white, with an occasional purple one.

People ask, “Don’t you fish? Don’t you take pictures?” No, I go just to be. I’ve caught a fish, but accidentally. He was dragging a bobber behind him and I pulled him in, unhooked and turned him loose. I tried photos. Someone gave me a waterproof film camera. I hadn’t realized until I tried to focus that my kayak bobbed so, even in what looked like calm water. Multi-tasking, not on Sunday afternoon, that’s for paddling, looking and breathing. Enjoying the deep, healing peace, the shalom of Sabbath.

Expectations

September 25, ‘09
Ten days without kayaking, I was so glad to be on the water again! I need to be outdoors. Deep droughts of sky and tree and water seem as necessary as eating and drinking. Instead, I felt like I’d spent a couple of weeks in the driver’s seat of my car.



The sun had a full ring around it and I thought, “Storm coming!” My grandfather started his adult life as a whaler on a sailing ship and went on to farm a few rocky acres in southeastern Massachusetts, so I grew up with a rich fund of weather lore. Then I thought about Jesus’ criticism of the folks who could read the weather signs but couldn’t tell the signs of the coming kingdom. Every age has had those who proclaim their days the “end times”. Rather than growing impatient, we wait expectantly. I’m reading a book by N T Wright, Surprised by Hope, on the resurrection. My favorite part so far is his discussion of how all creation will be resurrected, new heavens and new earth. I love the created world and find the concept of it being raised exciting. Ever since I discovered that the word for “world” in John 3:16 means “all that God created” I’ve wondered about God’s plan for his creation.



September 26, ‘09
Gray sky, gray water, the trees wrapped in mist, their greens muted. The storm predicted by yesterday’s ring around the sun is on its way. Someone asked me, “Don’t you get tired of paddling around the same lake?” No, partly because it is never the same lake. The surface changes from mirror smooth to wind whipped. The sky changes, the colors of the trees change, flowers bloom, and birds come and go. I’ve seen the eagle twice again. Each trip bestows a different gift when you look expectantly.



I come to Scripture with the same sense of expectancy. It’s different each time we read it. A well loved verse takes on a new dimension of meaning for us or we understand a passage that we’ve wondered about. New truths flash out, like a kingfisher off a branch.

An Eagle Before Breakfast

A friend who also kayaks was telling me about her adventures living on Prince Edward Island this summer. “I saw an eagle before breakfast!” We both paused and said in unison, “What a wonderful title!” We decided to use it if we found a place for it. For me, it seemed like a title for this column. On Crane Creek, I’ve seen an eagle before supper twice now.

September 2 I packed a picnic lunch and set off paddling. My favorite picnic spot is up the east end of the lake. There’s a spot where two creeks flow in. There’s always shade, even at noon, under an overhanging hop hornbeam tree. It’s quiet up there, too shallow for motor boats. To get there, I had to paddle against the wind for twenty or thirty minutes. The brisk northeast wind was raising bouncy waves with little curls of foam. I dug in and paddled steadily. I began to think about the wind. In a small boat there are two choices. You can paddle against the wind or with the wind. Trying to go crosswise can roll a little boat if the wind is strong enough. There are strong winds blowing in our world today and our boats are small. Will we go against the wind and paddle strongly, or will we turn and be blown along by the wind?

No eagles on this trip, kingfishers darting by, great blue herons fishing in the shallows, a tree with four egrets standing in it, a little green heron that snapped at and caught a dragon fly. The rhythm paddling, the beauty of the cardinal flowers on the banks, the elegance of an egret with its white wings tipped in gold by the sun behind it all feed my soul.

Sept 3 It all started with a pair of long nosed pliers. After borrowing a pair from a fisherman to free a turtle I’d found dragging an orange bobber and line with a hook in his jaw, I decided I needed a pair to carry in my kayak. My grand daughter had found a bottle with hook and line wound around it on a recent trip and played at fishing with the bare hook. I certainly needed to be prepared in case of an accident with a hook. So I went to buy an inexpensive set of pliers. Then, I needed a way to carry the pliers. I always try to carry a full survival kit when I hike, perhaps I should have a kit when I kayak. So I got a space blanket, waterproof match holder, first aid kit, some rope, water purifying tablets. With what I had at home, I put together a four pound kit that zips into a hip pack. Now when I paddle, it rides behind my seat, clipped to the strap that supports the seat back. I feel better going prepared. Spiritual survival kit? I found a water repellent New Testament bound in plastic with a plastic zipper. I read Colossians the other day while floating in an inlet. What are you carrying in your life’s survival kit?