Not everyone is outdoorsy

​I definitely replied far too eagerly when I was asked if I would like to contribute to this month’s edition of Faithfully.  The offer came by Facebook message, and I replied I would be happy to write.  

“The theme for July's Faithfully is being outside!”
Oh. No. Anything but the outdoors. A number of people in this diocese are probably already snickering because they know how useless I am at all things outdoorsy. I am not a good runner by any stretch of the imagination. Tennis and basketball and volleyball and soccer are not my strong suit. My parents both had horrible first experiences downhill skiing, and so we never learned; I haven’t skated since kindergarten. I’ll be going on my first hike since Grade 6 next week. I went on a sailing trip in Grade 9, but most of my time was spent in the galley with kitchen work, and not hoisting the mainstay. My grandfather was the outdoorsman in the family; when he passed, my grandma gave his guns away, but his fishing rods are sitting in the garage, waiting for my younger cousins to grow enough to use them. It’s safe to say that despite the many gifts I’ve been given, the gift of having skill in the outdoors is not one that God has given me.

Still, there is good to being outside, and God comes to find me there.

One of the first songs that I learned as a volunteer at Heritage Park in Calgary was the 1912 gospel song “In the Garden”.  Its popularity is easily understandable — the melody rolls along gently in the tradition of the best Victorian parlour songs, and in the text gently depicts the life of prayer as a garden, where the narrator comes alone to meet Christ and have deep conversation. Through the walk, Christ is present to the narrator, reminding them that they are His beloved and sharing in the deep joy of prayerful relationship, before giving His benediction and sending them on their way.

As a historic interpreter there, it was easy to see how true this metaphor is. In the cool morning breeze as I swept the boardwalk, and in the sweet wood smoke on the crisp autumn air, I could feel the presence of God gently beckoning me. My favourite exhibit to work in was the replica of Our Lady of Peace Mission. On rainy June days, I would sit on the bench by the fireplace wrapped in my wool capote, and peacefully pray the Rosary in the place of those first missionaries who founded this diocese. It gave me a lot of time simply to sit and meditate:  on the mysteries of the Rosary, on the faith and fortitude of those early missionaries, and on my own relationship with God. It was very much true — I was in the midst of a garden every day, and God was looking for me within it, calling me into a deeper relationship with Him.

​Still, the song took on greater meaning for me as I was working through my bachelor’s degree. It is somewhat of a difficult endeavour to tackle a degree while being an anxious person, and so there would be many nights where the stress of the workload and social environment would become overwhelming very quickly. In the winter of one of my earlier years, I was in the usual quandary of having everything due very quickly, and almost nothing finished. I was feeling very alone, and unready to conquer all that I had to face academically and personally. I was ready to throw in the towel (as I’m sure every student does at least 5 times a semester).  So, as any overwhelmed person would do, I pulled on my shoes and bolted out the door.

Solomon Ip

Replica of Our Lady of Peace Mission (1877), Heritage Park

I remember going past the dorm buildings, down the hill, through the cafeteria, and out into the coulees in the Oldman River. It was dark out — the University of Lethbridge hadn’t installed the floodlights yet — and so the only light I could see by was the moon reflecting off of the clouds, sailing eastward on a full chinook wind. I came to the crest of the coulees and just stood there, unsure of exactly what was going on or what exactly I was hoping to accomplish by getting fresh air.  

And that’s when He came to me.

The song’s chorus goes:

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
 
​And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy that we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known.”

It sounds cliché, and it probably is, but I can’t deny that I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost there that night, riding in on the wind, wrapping me tightly in His embrace, teaching me that I am beloved regardless of my academic abilities. To accept that God loves me as a cerebral exercise is one matter, but to experience it in the heart is another matter entirely. I think I began to understand this all more clearly that night. I felt peace in the midst of the academic storm, and joy in the midst of personal trial. Most importantly, I knew that I was His own.

I stood on the coulees for quite some time, the wind washing over me and carrying all of my anxieties out to Saskatchewan (or wherever the chinook winds go). When I finally left to return to another few hours of pounding my keyboard, I knew that regardless of how my academic work turned out, of more importance was that I would turn out, because I have a loving God who will light a lamp and sweep the house to find His lost coin.
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I would go on walks outside again throughout my degree whenever I was overwhelmed and anxious; even now, it has been a very present help in the midst of the pandemic. And still, every so often, God finds me on these walks and speaks with me in my heart, and we share that joy together that “none other has ever known”.

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Written by Solomon Ip, a parishioner of St. John the Evangelist, Calgary.