A few too many summers ago, I spent the summer working at a camp in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, living life outside with old and new friends and surrounded by trees - it was my ideal kind of summer. I have a journal of stories of how the Lord worked in my life that summer, and my mind has been drifting often to one of them in particular.
One long, 13-hour night, two friends and I canoed 54-miles from camp to the nearest “big city” of the Northwoods. We began at 6pm, all of the paddlers staggering their departures, and we even got to be the first to kick-off the race. First, before I go on any further, I must acknowledge that my canoe partners did the bulk of the labor - navigating, steering, paddling the hardest, etc. Thanks to them, I have this story to look back on, and I am so glad. The initial energy and excitement lasted for a long time, and we had plenty of different adventures to tackle in the first hours - portaging, navigating as it got dark, wilderness bathroom breaks, and more - all these new adventures amidst the slow, steady rhythm of paddling over and over. The familiarity of paddling was a comfort as we crossed what seemed to be an endless lake called Rainbow Flowage in the dark of the night. I’ll never forget seeing a flashing red light, far across the lake, and feeling like it was not getting a bit closer. I thought crossing Rainbow Flowage in the night was going to be the greatest mind game to conquer on these 54-miles.
Eventually though, we made it across that lake to the river that would flow us to our final destination. At this point, the darkness was waning, and I found a quick burst of energy in knowing that the Wisconsin River would be our last big step. There was no longer any ounce of doubt about our navigation choices; we just had to paddle the river around each bend and turn, and we’d get there. Rivers are lovely places to canoe, all sorts of trees to look at and the coolness of their shade to enjoy. We made it to the river around 4am, and with that, the sun started to inch its way to the horizon. Maybe you aren’t a morning person and don’t often see 4am (I definitely don’t tend to see that hour), but there is something about 4am that feels so ambiguous and discomforting - it’s not dark any more but also not yet light. It’s an in-between, a liminal space of knowing what’s behind you and not yet entering into what’s ahead of you. As we wound through the river, that hour of in-between seemed to last longer than the entire night behind me, and even the slow increase of sun above the horizon could not be seen because of the dense covering from the trees. I viscerally felt the tension of not knowing if the sun would rise, not knowing if I would see the light and cross the finish line. And to add to the tension, as my mind became more and more consumed, my paddling became weaker. I was slowing us down, which of course added to the tension of being in the same boat with two friends for 10 hours at this point. We were all tired, and I think we’d finished the entire jar of peanut butter at that point too. Once again, thank the Lord for those two pals that carried us on the journey.
These moments have been warmly popping into my mind lately, especially that time on the winding Wisconsin River in the in-between of night and day. Sheltering at home amidst COVID-19 has become its own kind of familiar, just like the rhythm of paddling across the lake in the dark, just keep paddling, just keep paddling. But as we venture into the new phases of what’s next and how do we do life in the months ahead, I feel the ambiguity of the winding river again; I feel the endlessness of the 4am hour where the unknowns are blocking the light of day.
By the grace of God though, we have been taught by the life of Jesus to paddle the winding river, to wait for the light of day in trust and obedience. And praise the Lord, we do not paddle alone! Jesus journeyed into the deepest depths of darkness and conquered death to win us back to him, to give us a dawn and to send his Spirit. Amidst the winding river, I couldn’t see what was around each turn and couldn’t fully grasp when the end would come, but I did know to just keep paddling. So, I will keep doing the familiar acts of paddling through this season - seeking the Lord in his Word, in his Church, in service, and in quiet listening. And I will keep reminding myself that some day, the winding river will end, and I’ll be Home.