Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [99]
Maybe that was the point of trail names: to recognize the person that you would become on the trail. For me, the distance between Jen and Odyssa marked the journey between naïveté and experience. I knew that when I reached Katahdin, Odyssa would be a person far removed from the girl who started the trail. I just hoped I could take Odyssa back home with me, and that Jen would get along with her.
That night at the shelter, I felt a little less like Odyssa and a little more like Jen.
It had been a great day, a beautiful day, but as night approached and I hiked off-trail to nearby Riga Lean-To, I discovered that I was the only one there. I hadn’t spent the night alone since the suicide.
A few weeks ago, spending the night alone wouldn’t have bothered me. I had slept on my own in shelters and on the ground many times on the trail. But now it was different. I wasn’t ready to be alone at night.
I hesitantly ate my dinner and prepared my sleeping bag. I prayed that another hiker would come and join me, but then when the sun disappeared, I prayed the exact opposite. I was scared that I would be hurt or threatened. The fear was making me feel sick, and I would have given anything to be somewhere else. But there was nothing I could do. The darkness had trapped me.
I lay awake that evening in fits of terror and insecurity. I tried to keep my thoughts positive, but thinking about my family and friends only made me feel more alone.
I felt unsafe on the trail and foolish for wanting to hike it alone. My mind kept flashing back to the negative encounters in Pennsylvania and the suicide in New Jersey. My current isolation and fears had stripped me of the confidence that I felt during the day. I started to sniffle, and tears began to slide down my cheeks. I looked up toward the rafters and started talking to God.
“God,” I said, sniffling, “I’m scared. I don’t know why I’m out here. When I started, I was so strong and healthy and confident. But now I feel weak, I feel broken. There is so much hurt and heartache out here. I don’t know why I wanted to do this alone. That was stupid.
“At one point I felt like You wanted me here, like You were calling me to the trail, but why would You make me go through all this?
“I don’t feel like I’m loving people well. How could I? I’m not even hiking with other people. And I don’t feel like I’m glorifying You, so if You did want me out here, then I don’t see why.
“But I am out here, okay? And whether it’s Your fault or my fault, I just need You right now. I need You to protect me. I don’t want to feel scared, and I don’t want to feel alone.”
There is never any doubt in my mind that God hears my prayers. And that night more than ever, it wasn’t about whether or not He was listening; it was about how and when He would respond.
Lying in the darkness, I never felt comforted. I continued to feel scared and alone, and I slept in fits of fear. But in the morning, things were different.
I awoke to discover the sun rising above distant mountains and green fields below. I was still in a daze when I saw it, but I immediately tried to find my camera. It was so beautiful; I wanted to save it.
The shelter faced east and offered an expansive view above the tree cover. The entire sky was glowing with radiant, rose-colored hues and bright orange highlights; everything around me seemed painted with an artist’s touch. The scene reminded me of standing alone and watching the sunset on Roan Mountain in Tennessee. I felt like God had designed this moment just for me.
He was communicating to me through the sunrise. He was talking—no, He