M is for Mountain, sort of

Part of my Lenten practice most every year post-ordination included some away journey. Before grandboys, there were annual trips to the ocean. Since their birth, a part of Lent has been to the high desert of central Oregon.

The timing for this year’s trip was to attend the older grandboy’s band concert. The concert was on Pi Day, so my daughter in law and I made a pie. I did the crust, she made the apple filling. Cooking together is a joy.

The concert was attended by all five of the grandparents and an aunt and her partner. I love that I’ve been here often enough to have extended community in Bend.

The Sunday following was the fifth in Lent, and it was the only day everyone in the family would be together. Is there a way to observe Lent without walking into a church building and to find Church somewhere else? That was my quest.

We lolled the morning; I spent a good amount of my time reading the Bible and praying and reading devotionals. I used the Bible I’d bought my grandson for my Bible time. That was precious.

After lunch, the whole family joined in walking the labyrinth at the local Lutheran Church. The church has set up their parking lot as a place for people without houses to live. They also have piles of wood as a wood bank for folks to take and use to keep warm. I love the way this church is Church outside their walls using what they have to share—a garden, a parking lot, wood.

As we walked the labyrinth, my family and I had conversation about the different ways that walking a labyrinth (and any kind of walking) can be a kind of prayer.

After the labyrinth walk, my son wanted to hike—another walk. I have pretty much given up hiking and have become rather a sloth. I had brought my walking stick on the trip, it was a beautiful day, and I decided to give it a go.

When we arrived at our hike, my response on seeing the not-mountain, was to give myself permission to climb as high as I could. My family was good with me taking my own pace, and eventually I sent them on ahead as I stopped to catch my breath.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, so I had plenty of time to ponder, in the places of pause where I caught my breath, of a hike I had attempted years ago. Crough Patrick is a half mile high mountain in County Mayo, Ireland, where Patrick is said to have climbed and fasted and prayed for forty days. The climb is uneven and rocky, and thousands make a pilgrimage to the top each year, some even barefoot. Even with hiking boots and a stick, I was unable to make it to the top of the mountain.

Here I was, nearly thirty years later, on a smaller not-mountain, still not able to walk to the top.

I was fine. Walking slowly, I had much time to think and pray. I had good pauses for breath that allowed me to look deeply at the beauty around me. Family who loved me were near.

It was Church on a not quite mountain top.