I wanted an AA meeting but got Jesus and grace instead.
Gray skies threatened that entire August afternoon and Maine’s forest humidity pressed sweat from every inch of our bodies. Six University of Virginia women and I were hiking the fifty northernmost miles of the Appalachian Trail in the famous 100-Mile Wilderness as the finale to our spring semester course on Pilgrimage and the Appalachian Trail. The third day of a multi-day trek is often the hardest regardless of the mileage, and this third day was no exception. Blisters formed, achy muscles did not disappear with the morning. One woman started to develop a sore knee that required frequent rest stops. We had three more days ahead of us, each demanding longer mileage than any of the days we had hiked thus far. Although the women had a positive outlook, their spirits started to flag compared with the two previous days. Two nights of heavy rain had dampened our spirits along with our gear.
As the leader, I felt the weight of the trip falling on me—not only the details but the psychological load of helping the women adjust to the weather. I thought that if my spirit wavered, theirs would, too, and we needed to keep our spirits up because we had a long way to go. My attitude, however, gradually soured over frustration with my own limits. While it was appropriate that as the leader I always brought up the rear, it disheartened me to realize that despite what great shape I was in for a late-forty-something, I belonged to the slower group among us anyway. My fear started to kick in, too. I worried about what would happen should the woman’s knee worsen now that we were in the depth of the wilderness and how that would affect the trip for all. Concern about my knees grew, especially about my left one that had seen five surgeries to repair cartilage tears and remove cysts. Although I knew that I could press ahead should I sustain an injury, once having hiked seven steep miles with a sprained knee swollen like a grapefruit, as the leader I did not want to let the team down that way or tell them they would have climb Katahdin, the final big mountain, by themselves. To make matters worse, what little patience I had was wearing thin, and patience is not one of my virtues even in the best of conditions. I wanted us to arrive at our shelter and camp site to set up before the rain came, but our hiking pace seemed to slow. Failing to beat back crabbiness, I snapped at one of the women. Though I apologized, I felt the damage. I lashed into myself for not having been more “adult.” A line from a country song sounded in my ears: “Some days are diamonds, some days are stone…” This one was dropping like a stone.
On the verge of a tears, I suddenly prayed, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.” As soon as I uttered the “Amen,” it hit me that I needed an AA meeting. “Good luck finding that in the 100-Mile Wilderness,” I murmured. Meeting or no meeting, my several years in recovery had taught me that stepping apart for a moment, finding a quiet place, and meditating was the right next step whether or not it effected a big turnaround. I thought the map had shown a side trail to a lakeside beach not too far ahead. Double checking, I pulled out the map and saw it. Our shelter was now only a mile away, and the beach path four-tenths of a mile shy of that. I called the group for a brief halt. I told them that I was going to the lakeside and for them to press on to the shelter and campsite. They were to set up the tents, unpack sleeping bags and other nighttime gear, fetch water, and I should be along by then.
The side trail to the lake snaked its way through trees and high weeds, making the path hard to see, and despite its supposedly short distance made me wonder if it led to anywhere other than remote. Suddenly the path opened onto the lake, and the water met the shore a few yards beyond. The guide notes called it a “sand beach,” but I saw only pebbles carpeting the area. Apparently pebbles resting on sand constituted a “sand” beach in the Maine woods, which upon further reflection made sense because “rocky beach” meant small boulders not gravel. I glanced around and discovered that I was not alone. Far to my left, a bearded hiker in his late twenties sat quietly beside a remnant fire ring warily eyeing me as I suspiciously eyed him. For a moment I resented his being there because I expected to have the place to myself. “Great,” I thought to myself. “Now I have greed and selfishness to go along with impatience.” None boded well for meditation. I also felt vulnerable and angry, because when I said hello, the man did not respond. Maybe he had sought solitude, too, but even the most introverted hikers usually said hello in return. The guide notes mentioned a spring nearby, and I wondered if the man planned to camp there for the night and was warding me off, because it looked like there was only room for one tent. I reminded myself that I had not come to the beach to claim real estate; I had come to meditate. What difference did it make if another person sat there? How many times had I mediated with others present, nuns no less, at the monastery near my home? It turned out that I had worked myself into a stew for no reason because a moment later the man left.
Relieved and repentant, I walked a few steps along the shore, took off my pack, sat down on the smooth stones a few feet from the water’s edge, pulled my knees up to my chest, and started my own AA meeting by praying the Serenity Prayer, this time intentionally. My mind focused on all of the things that I thought I should change. I was veering towards cynicism and needed to get my sense of humor back. I worried that the shelter where we wanted to sleep that night would be full if we did not arrive before others—greedy again. I circled back to the woman whose knee had started to stiffen and whose brace on it had controlled the swelling. I hoped that if the women reached the shelter soon, they would go ahead and get a cool bandana on the knee to reduce the swelling. I knew that I needed to pray, but with my worries and weaknesses tumbling through my head, I had to calm myself first. A verse from Psalm 131 came to me: “I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a child quieted at its mother’s breast; like a child that is quieted is my soul.” My soul was anything but that kind of quiet; it was more like a two-year old on the verge of a trantrum.
But I had come to meditate, even if meditating was not coming easy to my unquiet mind. I closed my eyes and worked to still myself with slow, deep breaths, letting calm fill me as I inhaled and anxiety flow out as I exhaled. Nevertheless, images of frustration would bubble up, and no sooner had I banished one than another would take its place. I needed help to get out of myself. At an AA meeting listening to someone else speak would do it, but out in the woods who was there?
Help came from the lake. In the small gap between exhaling and inhaling, my ear caught the lapping of the water against the shore. As soon as a thought tried to creep in, I redirected my attention to the lake: lap, lap, lap. I opened my eyes and watched the water roll up and then peel back from the shore. Lap, lap, lap. I closed my eyes again, bent my head to my knees, feeling the smooth cool stones beneath me, and listened. Out of nowhere the thought arose that Jesus’ disciples must have heard the sound of the Sea of Galilee this way, the rhythmic lap, lap, lap as it beat against their boats. My breathing slowed, having fallen in sync with the water. A slight breeze blew. My mind’s eye saw as clearly as if my eyes were open that someone to my right was reaching out a hand to me. I looked up and recognized Jesus. He said, “Follow me.” Without missing a beat I said, “Yes,” as I reached out my hand to his and moved to stand. Then it was over, like a dream. I continued to sit quiet and still, my head on my knees, hearing the lap, lap, lap of water. I had just agreed to follow Christ in the most vivid yet most unspecific way in my life to date, and as an ordained minister I had already said “yes” to Christ multiple times, even quite publicly. It struck me that this time I did not even think about it—no stated purpose, no heightened feeling, only an immediate “yes.” I sat and breathed deeply for a while longer.
With a clear mind and a calm soul, I stood up, put on my backpack, picked up my hiking poles, whispered a thank you, and headed back down the path to rejoin the AT. Not long after I turned onto the AT, I met a group of three middle-aged men headed in the opposite direction who asked if I was the one leading the university women. Surprised and still not happy with myself, I guardedly answered, “Yes.” They told me to keep up the good work, that more courses like the one I had offered needed to be given. Humbled, I thanked them for their encouragement, wished them Godspeed on their trip, and continued down the trail. I met two more men. They asked if I was the leader of the group of women at the shelter. Suspicious, I said, “Yes,” and they, too, offered encouragement. I thanked them and wished them well. As I hiked on I thanked God for the time by the lake and the affirmation that came from these passing strangers despite my faults. I remembered that God has a peculiar way of meeting people in the wilderness. I also had to laugh: in a way, I had gone looking for an AA meeting but got Jesus and grace instead. My sense of humor was returning. I looked forward to reuniting with my women and setting up for the night. We would have dinner, celebrate Communion—our one time on the trail, then the story telling would begin.