Church On Time
The steps are becoming smoother…one footfall after another, graupel and crystals spraying from the impact, ankles articulating to off-camber terrain. Somewhere above the tree line you get your physical groove on.
But mentally, ahhh, that’s where the sweet spot really lives—you have finally checked out. Elvis has left the cubicle. The pumping rhythm of your legs and heart are the mantra that enables you to dissolve, for a time, the normal urgent You.
We often make excuses about why we hike, bike, run; we rarely dig beneath the surface. We claim, “it helps clear the mind”, “it’s for our health.” It’s rare that we head into the backcountry announcing, “Gotta be at the church on time.” A house of worship has many doors and many rooms. And yet we sinners fall away from the backcountry; we get lost in the world of pavement, mini-malls and endless cube farms. We forget the healing powers of a clean line, a well-cut skin trail, or a boot pack without false peaks.
All it takes to start back on the path of righteousness is that first painful step on the trail. We sneak away from the office and trundle toward a distant peak, skis strapped to our packs, hydration system a bit skanky from disuse. Quickly the repetitive power of the boot trail starts, and as happens at most Quaker meetings, we melt into our thoughts.
On a good hike your partner only intrudes when they have something meaningful to say. In the Quaker church it’s known as “when the spirit moves you.” And those who are true to the teachings know only to interrupt the reverie of others when what they have to say is meaningful to everyone within earshot. Those are the soulful days.
On powder days worship becomes somewhat like a southern Baptist tent revival. Skiers rip great swaths of untracked while hooting and hollering out of pure rapture. The chairlift riders nod along with each “Wooohoooo” and say “Amen brother. Right on, right on, right on!” Where else in life do we hoot?
And when it’s your turn to testify you nail turn after turn, cutting perfect lines in a pure tapestry of untrammeled snow…and involuntarily the spirit moves you and you get right with The Lord and say, “Wooohooo.” Moments after, your butter pump hammers in your chest as you survey your line, your offering that will quickly disappear…and the riders on the chairlift shout “Amen brother!”
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