We were on the early days of our hike on the AT through Virginia. Because we had only been on the trail for a few days, everything was still new on this beautiful early May morning in 2015. We were discovering Jack-in the-Pulpits and morel mushrooms and wild columbines.
But we were also making our way through a jumble of small but close mountains called the “roller coaster.” The trail took us through a series of constant, short but steep up and downs. It was tedious and annoying. We hadn’t gotten our “hiking legs” yet, and everything from setting up the tents to cooking supper, to carrying our back packs and tending blisters was still new. Meeting hikers on the trail was new as well; usually that was a welcome distraction.
As we came down a descent heading south, we met Jingles heading north. Most thru-hikers hadn’t made it so far north yet. Jingles was approximately our age, which meant he wasn’t in such a hurry as many of the younger hikers on the trail. He seemed as eager as we were to catch our breath and spend a few minutes asking questions about what was up ahead. We shared trail names, told each other where we had started, and how far we were going. Jingles was going to Maine. We found out he was a psychologist married to a pastor, and he learned that I was a pastor on sabbatical and that my hiking buddy’s spouse was a pastor. So we ended up having much in common and regretted that we weren’t going the same direction.
As often happens, we began to tell our stories about why we were on the trail. He told us how he had started the trail in Georgia the previous year, but had developed Lyme’s disease and had to come off. This year he was picking up where he had left off and continuing on to Maine. Then he paused and with a sad look in his eyes said, “I guess I can trust you with the story of why I am on the trail… because you will understand.”
Then he told us this story:
“When my son was young, we went on a short camping trip together. We were hiking a few days on the AT in Georgia. On the first night, we arrived at a shelter. There was already an older gentleman there, and so we started a conversation. My son asked him how far he was going. With a twinkle in his eye, the man announced, “I’m hiking to Maine.”
“To Maine,” said the boy. “That’s a long way.”
“Sure is, “ said the hiker.
“But you are so old!!!” said the boy. And of course, the older hiker laughed.
That night, Jingles and his son climbed into their tent. It didn’t take long for Jingles to doze off. But he was suddenly awakened by his son, “Dad. Dad.”
“What. What is it?” said the groggy Jingles.
“When you are old and when I am grown up, can we hike from here to Maine on the AT?
“Uhh, sure,” said Jingles.
“Dad, do you promise? Promise me we can do this together?”
“I promise,” mumbled Jingles.
After Jingles had told us this, he paused and said, “My son has died. I am keeping my promise.” Then he walked away, heading north to Maine. I cried for the next mile of hiking south.
That was the memory that emerged for me (five years later) as I talked to my friend a few weeks ago. Now I realize that Jingles’ journey on the AT was much different than mine had been. His pilgrimage was one of working through grief. His was one of lament. His was one of love for a son whom he didn’t have near anymore—unless his was carrying his ashes. His experience on the trail would have been far different than mine. That year I was enjoying the newness of it all and relishing my new accomplishments on the trail. But step by step Jingles would have been grieving, remembering his son, and likely having regrets that the trip had not happened while his son was alive.
As I recounted to my friend this 5-year-old memory about Jingles, I realized that instead of being on the trail this year enjoying the annual adventure of it all, I was on a different kind of pilgrimage—one of lament more similar to that of Jingles. I have lost my mother in the past year …which is not the same as losing a son, I know. I have lost other things as well—which I am not going write about on this blog. But, on a more superficial level, and I am embarrassed to admit it with so many more serious concerns around, I am grieving not being on the trail this year. Yes, I admit it. In some ways it is such a silly and superficial grieving compared to what’s going on around me. But the truth is that this past year there has been a lot of grieving, not just in my own life but in the life of the congregations where I have been an interim. And now suddenly and certainly, there is lamenting in the life of the world with this devastating virus and the ways people are reacting to it.
And so, in tribute to Jingles, I name my current journey in life as a pilgrimage of love and lament. I know Jingles would understand what I am talking about. He loved and he walked lamenting. I think I do too. Stay tuned for another post.
Joyce says
Thank you for a beautiful recollection with a reminder of what is truly important. Now I am in tears. Life is short. 👍
Patty W says
What an encounter. We never know how these experiences will pop up again and travel with us on our journey. Thank you for your words this day. May the current journey bring you awareness of what you need most at this time.
Richard Jorgensen says
It is sometimes surprising how much one brief, but holy, encounter can still shape us years later. Grief itself cannot be measured, but it also teaches us so much whenever we are ready to learn.
M. J. McCluskey says
Just beautiful. I’m in tears too.