Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [64]
I arrived in Roanoke on Saturday, so I spent the day relaxing and doctoring my feet with over-the-counter first aid treatments. And the following day I went to church.
When I woke up on Sunday morning, I put on my nicest outfit, which consisted of clean, black rain gear. On the way to church, Pastor Leslie asked if I would be interested in speaking to the children’s Sunday School class and telling them about my hike. Her offer caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure what I would talk about, but I agreed, mainly because I love kids (and I was secretly hoping for some donuts).
When we arrived, I was ushered into the small sanctuary where the children gathered for Sunday School. There were just over a dozen kids in the room, ranging in age from four to twelve.
I asked them to raise their hands if they had ever heard of the Appalachian Trail, but no arms went up. Then I asked if any of them had ever been backpacking—still no hands. Finally I asked if they had ever been on a hike, and three children shot their fingers toward the ceiling.
I started with an overview of the trail. I told them how far I had come, what a typical day was like, what I carried in my pack, and how I resupplied. Then I opened the floor up for questions.
Instantly every hand went up. I called on the children one by one, and even after answering the first ten questions, there were still twelve hands in the air. I was a veteran at fielding inquiries about the trail from adults, but I was taken aback to hear an entirely new set of questions from these children.
Adults usually asked questions rooted in fear: Was I scared? Did I carry a gun? What did I do about snakes and bears? What if I couldn’t make it? What did my parents think?
The children, on the other hand, asked questions rooted in curiosity: What was my favorite part of hiking? What did I like about sleeping outside? What were my favorite animals? What was I going to do when I got to the end? Would I ever want to do it again?
Their interest was so great that even after our hour together had ended, there were still kids propping their hands up on a pew or holding up one hand with the other, hoping I would call on them. Our session ended abruptly when the adults flooded into the sanctuary and Pastor Leslie directed me to a front pew, where I sat waiting for the service to begin.
After starting with announcements, the congregation was called to their feet, and for the next hour, the small sanctuary was filled with heartfelt song.
Much like I remembered, this was not the praise music of contemporary churches, nor was it the bellows of traditional hymns. It was the music of a community overtaken by joy. Soulful harmonies filled the chapel, and I was amazed by the freedom of expression. The congregation swayed, danced, stomped, clapped, and raised their hands in the air, but it wasn’t for show, it was in celebration.
At most churches, the noon hour would mark the end of the service. At this Assembly, 12:00 marked the end of the music hour and the beginning of a period where people who were filled with the spirit could speak in tongues.
I had never heard anyone speak in tongues, and my home church treated it as taboo, so I was filled with curiosity when the first groans and mutterings filled the room. The congregation mumbled and uttered in ways I could not comprehend, but I knew that this was important to them, and I could tell that it made them feel connected to a higher power.
It occurred to me that hiking allowed me to experience God in a way that others might not understand. In many ways, I felt