finish line

Well...

We're crossing the Florida state line tomorrow. And Paul's parents have offered to pick us up there. And...

We said yes.


(More on everything later! Love y'all!)

Tropical Storm Wossname

Okay, it wasn't really a tropical storm... but it felt like one.

Here's what happened: yesterday we planned to spend the morning in the library and start walking in the early afternoon, since the town we were headed for had no library--and it was supposed to be a little rainy, so maybe we could sit out the rain in the morning. Well, Paul checked the weather and then we got out of the library pretty soon; showers in the morning, it said, and a rainstorm in the afternoon.

We walked and walked; we ate lunch by some train tracks and walked some more. We didn't worry too much about beating the rain, it didn't look too bad...

Then, as we passed a few houses by the side of the road, a tall country guy with grey hair and a beard called to us, "Y'all want a beer?"

We crossed over and explained that we drink beer but not really while we're walking because the alcohol can dehydrate you. He said he had some light beer; we shook our heads and he offered ice water. Paul took the opportunity to explain that we were hoping to make it to Lenox before the rain did, and our new friend said, "Oh, Lenox ain't but seven miles!" Well, yes, we said, and at our pace it would take us most of the day. "I'll give y'all a ride then," he said.

It started to sprinkle as he gave us a ride, chatting about Florida and Paul's parents' retirement village, where our friend had done some construction work. It had stopped when we got to Lenox and spotted a good picnic shelter back behind a church. We said goodbye and went to settle in.

Within fifteen minutes, it had started to rain. It didn't stop till almost twenty-four hours later.


Okay, I'm stretching that, but for all practical purposes it was true. When we woke up in the morning it had stopped, and we prepared to get going, and about one minute before we were going to step out on our day's walk it started again.

And I mean rain.

I'm happy for Georgia. It started out fine, drizzly, that you-don't-notice-till-you're-soaked rain; then it got a little more serious; then it poured. It was unpaved and sandy under the picnic shelter, and there were no tables, just a bench along one end and a sort of shelf along the other; when it poured, little runnels ran through it down the slope. Paul slept on the shelf; I slept part of the night on the one part of the sandy floor that was too high to have any runnels; but the wind blew spray in on me, and I switched to the shelf; then switched back again when the wind changed. I got plenty of sleep, honest.

And in the morning, there we were, our little world a picnic shelter surrounded by rain. I did all my mending: the button I'd lost on my shirt, the straggling threads on my jacket lining... We read, we had a long morning prayer time... I took a nap. We only had crackers and peanut butter--we'd planned to do our shopping in the next town... but Paul braved the first few moments of clearing-up to go to the dollar store for tuna, canned ham, chips and applesauce, and we had a pretty nice meal. And, finally, it was over. The sun began to show through.

We walked maybe two or three miles, and then got a ride to where we are now.

And that's how God got us through Tropical Storm Wossname without even getting wet. (Just very damp. Ick!)

people who know what it's like

After we left the library where we'd met Van, we were offered a ride somewhere down the road. The guy drove an old Jeep and said he'd drive us a town further than where he was actually going, because he liked to drive. (I couldn't hear him real well from the back, but I thought he said "If we could spot him some gas"; seemed like a good idea anyway, but he ended up refusing when we offered.)

We rode along, chatting; we ended up telling him about the retreat ministry and he ended up telling us that he'd gotten off drugs about eight months ago.

"I support what you're doing," he said.

That night we slept outside a church near a peanut processing plant (did I mention the peanut & cotton fields around here?) and walked on into Tifton, Georgia, where we found a church called Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist. Sounded pretty good to us! We went there earlier in the day to check out if it seemed a good place to sleep, before heading to the library for the afternoon. There were a lot of people outside on their porches, and one guy sitting on what appeared to be his air-conditioner sticking out of his front window.

When we returned after dark, the guy sitting on his air-conditioner was still there. "Y'all need a place to stay?" he called to us.

"Uh... sure," we said.

He invited us into his little efficiency apartment; after gauging the situation for a moment, we took him up on it. "My name's Gaye. I've been homeless," he said. "I know what it's like."

His two neighbors from the other apartments came over too; a guy named Bruce to offer us buns, baloney and cheese slices (in spite of our insistence that we'd eaten) and some comments about how he'd been there too; and a black lady named Popcorn to hang out and play cards. They taught us a game called Deuces. Paul, who professes not to like games, won.

He gave us crackers to pack in our packs, and as we left in the morning he tried to give us a couple cans of soup. "I know what it's like," he said.

a few thoughts

Miscellaneous thoughts...

We saw our first palm trees in Albany, in a park with a fountain and painted turtles. (Not the species... just statues of turtles, painted.) A lovely place where we ate our lunch. Gazing at the water, I commented to Paul that the best things in life are either free or horribly expensive: for the sound and sight of falling water, just wait till you happen to run across a park like this, or a waterfall, and it's free... or if you want to own it, build a fountain on the grounds of your mansion. As Mastercard says, priceless. The best things in life are free, until you try to control them.

We're only about a week from the Florida state line, now. I've also started to see Spanish moss, and today what may have been a cypress swamp. (Mostly dried up. It is not a good year down here...)

Oh, I forgot to tell y'all about Koinonia, didn't I? The summary is simple: the place is lovely, lots of pecan trees, we worked in the bakery packing chocolate and pecans, both to earn our keep and because we liked it, and we stayed for a week. I used the semi-public computer almost every night, working on my novel.

Another little tidbit: only three chapters left to revise, then tweak some passages here and there and write an epilogue and I'm done! Soon. Very soon.

And finally, a lovely line from a poem someone read for devotions at Koinonia... the poet describes hatred as a flaring fire, and love as the small, constant flame of a candle, and ends the poem with these lines:

Know this: though love is weak and hate is strong,
Yet hate is short, and love is very long.

van

We were eating our breakfast yesterday when Van approached us. Actually, it was more like this:

We're outside a library, under a picnic shelter eating our tortillas and peanut butter. The library opens in a few minutes, at 9:30, and we'll go in then. The picnic area's a bit run down and, this doesn't look like the safest of small south Georgia towns, it's kind of run-down, and I'm a bit nervous. You could chalk it up to being a minority; I have been for three days now, and I was used to it in Africa but not here; now I know how African-Americans feel. Ever since Albany white people are few and far between.

A black guy over at the next table calls out to us: "Hey y'all got a phone?" Sorry, I tell him, we don't; we don't own one. He apologizes for disturbing us and I tell him not to worry about it. "He didn't have a southern accent," I remark as he goes away.

A few minutes later he's back, walking toward us. "Do you mind if I ask you a question... is it okay, can I come?" Come up to the table, he means. Of course. He wants to know if we know anybody who can help him; he's stranded, someone robbed him, he has a disabled nine-year-old son at home. We don't know the area, although there was that church we slept at last night; the pastor came out in the morning as we left (we had no idea he'd spotted us) with a Bible and an offer of food from their food pantry, which we declined, & had a friendly chat about what we're doing. We could go back there, I say; but he says he's through with churches, and I know what he means. The brush-off can hurt bad.

It takes us awhile to get the story straight. His name is Van, he frames houses, he lives in Florida with his wife and son; he took the bus to North Carolina because someone up there offered him work for awhile, but "awhile" turned into only a week, and when he took the bus back down, he walked out of the bus station in Atlanta and was beat up and robbed by four guys "young enough to be my sons". Greyhound refused him another ticket, but a friendly trucker gave him a ride to Albany; that was the end of his luck. He had walked out of Albany just like we had, I think. He was surprised to hear what we were doing, and in agreement with us that we all need God's provision; we felt on the same level, in the same boat. I asked him if he was hungry, offered some of our breakfast; "No, y'all need that, I'm fine," he said.

We did have some money, though. I slipped a note to Paul under the picnic table, suggesting the purchase of a new bus ticket. He didn't speak up about it though, and I kept my counsel, knowing he usually has a good reason I haven't thought of. (I'm the impulsive one.) (He did have a good reason: the bus ticket was, I think, more expensive than Van thought.) Van had a phone number of someone who'd said they could help him, but it was long-distance. I said he could use my phone card; he started to refuse that too, saying we needed it as bad as he did, and I slapped the table. "Van," I said, "God may have brought us together so we could contribute what we can to helping you. So let us. God's been taking very good care of us, and it's only right if we can pass some of that on to you."

We went on talking, or mostly listening; we weren't sure what to do, and he seemed to need to talk. He kept apologizing for going on and on at us, he was feeling strange, he couldn't stop talking. "You're stressed," I said, "and you got a right to be." We sat, and listened, until finally we came to a sense of what to do: go into the library, ask to use the phone; call the number he had, then make further plans.

The library wouldn't let us use the phone, just the phonebook; they said there were payphones down the street. Somehow (I got confused) we let Van go off to look for the payphones without my phonecard, but with a promise to return and tell us what was going on. We waited; Paul looked up charitable groups in the phonebook, I looked up bus ticket prices online. We felt like we were back at the shelter in Champaign doing our emergency work. I was trying to figure out how he got quoted such a low price for the ticket when he came into the computer room, radiant. "I've found a guy who'll give me a ride to the station and buy my ticket!" "Wha'?" I said. "Wow." and he grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek and was out the door with a "God bless you! Take care of each other, OK?" "Yes sir," I said, and he was gone.

It wasn't enough for me though. Wha'? Where'd he find this? I found Paul and he had the whole story: Van had borrowed someone's cell phone, but only gotten an answering machine. Then the man had let Van call his wife, and after listening to this conversation held on his phone, must have decided that Van was legit. (Honestly, Van was the most obviously legit guy I ever met. I try to give the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes you're sure. No spin doctor makes up, "My wife is a hypochondriac, but I love her.") He offered to give him a ride to the station and buy his ticket.

And there it was. We hadn't helped him at all.

We hadn't, and yet he was grateful. I felt real love when he kissed my cheek. And I thought of something I've thought about--and wished for the chance to practice--recently: a passage by Simone Weil that Paul quoted on his blog. Weil says that those who are suffering need nothing more than to be given someone's full attention--but that this is often the hardest thing to give. If you read the passage, you'll see that Weil is talking about a purer, more absolute quality of attention than ours was; I mean please, we were just listening while we racked our brains for a sensible plan and I kicked Paul under the table to remind him I'd suggested a bus ticket! (You can see why I was wishing for some practice!) But I'm thankful for the opportunity to meet somebody who's been beat up, turned away, mistrusted, and stared at, and to use his name, look at him as a human being, listen to his feelings. Even if I could give no more help than that, I was glad of the chance.

darlene

Hey, wait a minute. I didn't tell y'all about Darlene.

Darlene comes before the previous post; before Koinonia, before the cop and all the rides. Darlene gave us the first ride after we left Aunt Alice. But more importantly--Darlene was the only person we have met on this walk who guessed the riddle on the first try.

Two people walking down the road, with backpacks and sticks, just walking. Who are they, what are they doing? Crazy kids, suspicious hippies, runaways? A broke young couple trying to make it to where they've been promised a job? Hikers who for some reason prefer the American road to the Appalachian Trail? Darlene pulled over and offered us a ride, one evening; we told her where we were going--to the next church that we ran across, so we could sleep outside it--and she invited us home. We had just gotten in the car, and barely started eating the corn dogs she'd bought at the fair, when she began to talk about how she'd been wondering lately what it was like for Jesus and his disciples to be walking all over the place, trusting God to take care of them, and what it would be like to try that today. She said she saw us with our packs and our sticks and that's what she thought of; and she saw something between us, a kind of glow, something like that.

She brought us home but her husband was sick, and so as not to bother him she brought us over to her mother's--and a good thing too! I'd have hated to miss a chance to meet this "country mama," as Jackie called herself. She fed us sandwiches in her cozy trailer with a deer's head on the wall & teased Darlene, who teased back, with wit that made me feel right at home. We talked a long while, talking about Jesus, and also hearing stories like how a man saved one of Jackie's babies with a home remedy: the child had had diarrhea for a week and nothing she'd done for it had helped, but this man poured a spoonful of whiskey, burned off the alcohol, and gave it to the baby; then repeated the treatment twice at intervals--and it worked! She tried it again, years later, and it worked again. So write that one down, folks; as Snoopy says, "Some of those old wives were pretty sharp."

(Actually don't write it down, OK, because I'm not sure I remember all the details right!)

We shared some of our Aldi chocolate with Darlene (Jackie couldn't partake; diabetes) and said goodnight for a sweet night's sleep in the double bed in Jackie's living room. It took me awhile to go to sleep; somehow it was a night to lie awake and think of really good sentences to go in the next chapter of my novel... maybe I was inspired. But I did sleep and slept well, and in the morning we rose early to get a ride with Darlene as she went to work. She dropped us off and we said goodbye, and who knows when we'll see each other again.

But we will. That's for sure.

Oh, and by the way, Darlene... we don't seem to have your email address. If you read this, would you mind letting us know?

carried

We're in Americus, GA now, and a LOT has happened since Atlanta... and to be honest, folks, it's real hard keeping up with this blog and trying to finish my novel on the same library computer time! So to catch you up on the news, Paul has let me copy his blog entry that relates our recent adventures...


Americus, GA

We arrived at Koinonia Farm yesterday evening, just as the sun was setting over the fields. Someone came out and welcomed us joyfully, though we were several days early. It was hard to believe we had started the day over 45 miles away.

We had traveled so quickly, it's hard to keep track of it all. After Darlene dropped us off, we'd only walked a few miles out of that town and found a quiet church with shelter for the night. But it turned out to be an eventful evening. An old truck pulled up with two big guys in it, asking us a bunch of suspicious questions, but our answers seemed to satisfy them and they left. Just as we were about to lay down, though, a police car pulled up. Someone had seen us and called him. When he heard our story he was sympathetic, but couldn't let us stay there because of the complaint, so he offered to drive us thirteen miles further down the road to another sheltered place there. So we got a ride in the back of a police car (where the door handles don't work). We talked with him more on the way, and when he dropped us off he gave us the last three dollars in his wallet, apologizing that he didn't have more.

That long ride allowed us to reach the next town by evening, after a nice walk through the rolling Georgia countryside, and we found grocery store and a church to sleep at. We attended there the next morning. And met the pastor, Eddie, who invited us home with him for Sunday dinner and a much needed clothes washing. Then back to the church while he prepared for the evening service, where we got to shower in the "bridal suite" (a nicely decorated room for use during weddings). After the service we went home with Eddie and Stacy again for subs and conversation and slept there too. We left the next morning very grateful—and with the further possibility that they might pick us up on their way to the next town later that evening. We were hopeful for that ride, since it was almost 25 miles to the next town, further than we could walk in a day.

As it turned out, we had managed about ten miles when a man on his way home from work offered us a ride in the back of his pick-up. We hesitated, then accepted, a little sorry not to see Eddie and Stacy again. But when we were dropped off and began to look for a church for the night, we had only walked a few blocks when I heard someone call my name. We turned and there was Stacy. She had just dropped Eddie at a meeting and was headed for Americus for dinner, did we want to come along?

So we shared another meal with her and found ourselves in the town we had been headed for. Having moved so far so quickly, however, I didn't know the area. So we wandered, looking for a church, and not finding much, when I thought of the Habitat for Humanity headquarters there in town (Habitat started from Koinonia Farm, and now operates out of Americus). Maybe someone there would point us in a good direction. It was closed when we arrived, but there were some people in the parking lot, so we introduced ourselves and explained our situation. Hearing we were headed for Koinonia, one of the women promptly offered to drive us. So our third ride of the day landed us at our destination.

Our most extreme experience yet of being carried. Over two twenty-five mile stretches which offered little shelter or water, through the hands of a half dozen people we hadn't met before (not to mention the hands that dialed the police to get rid of us). Almost as if someone arranged it. You know, it may not be so bad to be a nobody, as long as you have someone looking out for you...

kindred conversations

And coming up on the present time....

We're now ending a visit with my aunt Alice, and it's been a lovely time. Alice is a missionary counselor, or more precisely "mental health resource person"; her job includes (but I'm sure this is not exhaustive!) psych evaluation of missionary candidates, seminars and one-on-one counseling at conferences of her mission (she just got back from one in Malaysia), debriefing with missionaries returning from the field, crisis interventions, and referring people for long-term counseling in the place where they are. I think it's a fascinating profession; last time I visited I was too young (or too shy?) for such conversation, but on this visit Paul and I really enjoyed talking with her about her work.

We also had a fruitful discussion about our work. The possibilities of retreats at Plow Creek are beginning to seem more concrete to me; we've heard recently that a couple of different living spaces are opening up at Plow Creek, so in any case when we come back it probably won't be to a guestroom! So we're talking about possibilities and plans... one important element is what the schedule of a weekend retreat will look like, and my aunt contributed a suggestion we like better and better the more we think about it. Karen Mains, an author and Christian leader I've read and respected a long time, is currently (in Illinois, too!) leading a new, very simple counseling practice she calls "listening groups." A small group of people meet, and each person is given a set amount of time; twenty or thirty minutes is the norm. During her time, each person is free to talk about whatever she wants to talk about; when she stops talking, the group will sit in prayerful silence till she makes it known she has nothing more to add. Then the group begins asking questions--but only questions of clarification are allowed. No judgments are given, and no advice; the group listens until the person's time is up.

Very, very simple. And yet, as many people know (and as science is beginning to prove--Alice cited medical experiments correlating the experience of being listened to with actual regeneration of brain cells), this can be very healing. We've discussed the idea of having one or even two listening-group sessions at each retreat. It's an important part of our philosophy to listen first to what God is already doing with a person before trying to "minister", so the listening group, besides its healing effect, will give us a chance to listen for the Spirit in each person's life.

We also visited my cousin Madelle and her husband Carlos, who's from Argentina; they lived there until a few years ago when the political crisis and economic depression there convinced them their only option was to move to the U.S. I'd never really spoken to Carlos before (he doesn't speak English and I don't speak Spanish) but Paul and I had a great conversation with them both, Madelle translating, and learned that Carlos worked for years with recovering drug addicts from the rehab center run by his church in Argentina--employing them in his construction business and accompanying them with friendship and Christian wisdom. (Not a thing to be underestimated, especially with addicts. It's the difficulty of walking a straight line with someone pulling in all directions: comforting them in sadness and confronting them when they steal your things, offering honest friendship and refusing unhealthy dependency. You have to be very grounded in your faith.) We learned all this while eating breakfast with them: apple pancake and fascinating stories. And I climbed a tree with their daughters!

Well, I could go on, because the third highlight of my visit is an utterly fascinating book called Spirit of the Rainforest, about the Yanomamo (aka Yanomami) people group of the Amazon; a group my grandparents worked with a branch of, as missionaries. There's been a lot of anthropological study of this people, and missionaries have been widely criticized for changing their culture... and the author of this book apparently went in and gathered and transcribed testimony from the Yanomamo themselves, in an attempt to get the real story. What emerged is--well, like I said, utterly fascinating.

And far too long to recount here! I will therefore return to my attempts to finish the book before leaving tomorrow...