Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [92]
There was something about hiking, something about making forward progress that felt healing. In a way, it was good to be processing the death alone on the trail. I could deal with it in my own time and think through it completely. I didn’t have to repress thoughts of the suicide and try to go on with everyday life. Instead, I was forced to face it head on. I was forced to think about what had happened, what I had seen, and then I could start to work my way through it, one step at a time.
I have never been through a day where I experienced such a vast array of emotions. At first, I was angry with the victim, but then I was moved with sympathy for his family. I questioned why God had put me in this situation, and how the smallest of choices could have changed or prevented the morning’s events.
Mostly, I was upset over how premeditated the victim’s death seemed, and how he had tied his hands so he wouldn’t struggle. I think the twine around his hands bothered me most, even more than the rope around his neck. Tying your hands is admitting that every natural instinct is to fight and live.
I wondered why he had chosen to do it here, in nature. Why couldn’t he have done it in a dark room somewhere? And why did he choose hanging? Why such a dramatic death?
Eventually, the questions began to fade, and the sense of physical illness and tension started to subside. I began to sense something larger and more powerful at work in me. And although I didn’t come to an understanding of that morning’s events, I was filled with gratitude for the joy, hope, and love that filled my life. I thanked God for the warm breeze that caressed my skin, the chirping birds that sang to me in the woods, and for my family and friends back home. I was thankful for my life, and for the life all around me.
That afternoon, the sky opened up and flooded the ground, but that evening the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the sunset cast a flaming orange glow across the sky.
When I went to bed, I was still shaken, but I sensed God’s presence and felt very aware of all the blessings that filled my life.
At sunrise, I awoke and began hiking. I had planned to hike through the day, but after an hour and a half, I came to a road. A stile separated the trail from the road, and as I climbed over it, a car driving down the highway slowed down and pulled off beside me.
The lady in the driver’s seat rolled down her window. “Hey, I’m headed up the road to Vernon. If you want to go to town, I can take you there.”
It’s rare to be offered a ride without hitchhiking, and I didn’t want to pass it up. I didn’t need to resupply, but I figured that a hot lunch might raise my spirits.
Upon arriving in the small town and climbing out of the car, I heard church bells ringing. I had totally forgotten that it was Sunday. As I looked around, I could make out four churches within a quarter mile. It was strange that the woman had dropped me off here instead of at a grocery store or restaurant.
As I continued to listen to the bells, they seemed to chime with the promise of comfort. I followed the music to an Episcopal church that had a hiker hostel in the basement, and I decided I would attend the service there. However, as I approached the front door of the Episcopal church, a neighboring Methodist church caught my eye. I had no preference between Methodist and Episcopal churches, but a sudden inexplicable urge, like a strong wind, built up inside my body and drew me to the Methodist chapel.
I left my pack by the side of the building and slipped inside the sanctuary to claim a seat by myself in the back pew.
The service started with the hymn “In the Garden.” I could remember my grandmother humming this song around the house when I was little, but I didn’t remember all the words. That morning as the congregation sang, “And He walks with me, and He talks with me. And He tells me I am his own,” The lyrics returned to me and flooded my heart.
The scripture reading that followed was Psalm 23, a chapter I had heard so many times that it had lost its meaning. But that