I survived another retreat with my kids. Mind you, I enjoy these outings; both because they give me an opportunity to spend quality time — and quantity time — with my boys and because I also, by nature of the father-son character of the group, get to visit with men of stellar character who, like me, are attempting to raise their families to appreciate the importance of faith in a world that has by and large decided to do without.
That’s not to say the retreat was all fun and games. We spent three days and two nights canoeing the Buffalo and White Rivers in Arkansas; camping in tents, bathing in the river, eating plenty of tuna and sardines and trekking into the woods to, um, give back to nature what would otherwise be unwelcome near the campsite. People ask me if I’m ready to go back and I answer with an emphatic: “Well, I guess so.”
This was my fifth such trip and, given that it was the first for my youngest two boys (10 and 13), there is no doubt we will do it again (in fact, a tentative trip is scheduled for two years from now). Asking so soon, however, whether I’m ready to brave such an adventure again is akin to asking a woman who has just spent 18 hours in hard labor — including 30 minutes of painful pushing — to give birth to the beautiful baby she’s holding in her arms whether she’s “ready for another one.”
I mean, eating stale MREs, sleeping on rocky beaches (bad back and all) and picking off ticks two days after the return home may not be nearly as traumatic as giving birth, but it’s still too close to the drama for me to think of such a thing. Like a new mom, however, given enough time, I’m sure only the warm memories will shine through and I’ll be back in the saddle, or uncomfortable canoe seat, again. Oh, joy.
Having been on this particular journey so many times, you might think I’ve gotten all the kinks worked out and that I’m a veritable pro at tent camping and canoeing. Well, you would be wrong. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I’m just lazy and unwilling to make the sacrifice. Maybe I have a poor memory and sincerely forget the specifics. (Will I need a flask or flashlight? How much water should I bring? Is this bag REALLY watertight?)
Perhaps it’s a case of attention-deficit disorder. (One of the senior partners in our clinic used to say I might have been a neurosurgeon if it weren’t for my apparently obvious ADHD symptoms). Or maybe, just maybe, I simply choose to ignore the reality of what is needed for fear that, if I dwell on it too much, I might decide not to go (or at least won’t enjoy it as much due to the dread).
In the Catholic Church we have something called “viaticum” — bread for the way. It’s the reception of Holy Communion just prior to death. Among the early Christians — often imprisoned, tortured and killed for their faith — receiving the “bread of life” was warm consolation in a time of need. It was literally sustenance for the long journey ahead — the journey into what lies beyond this earthly life. Jesus told us he would be with us always and these first believers were particularly happy to have him accompany them on that last leg of what for many was a most arduous adventure.
What about me? Am I ready for THAT part of my life? With five kids still either living at home or in college, I don’t really give it much thought. I’ve got too much on my plate to even THINK about taking that long walk on a short pier. True, I’ve got my life insurance policies paid up and my Last Will and Testament all laid out, but when it comes to that most important preparation — that of my soul — I can’t help but think I’m overly confident and under-prepared. Am I lazy, inattentive or, perhaps, simply afraid to face that inevitable journey?
Those without faith never face such decisions. Those of us with faith sometimes aren’t much better. In the end, I’m glad I’ve got godly men — and a loving wife — to challenge me along the way. They will no doubt help me “pack” what I really need; my “Bread for the Journey.” Who knows, when the time comes, I may be better prepared than I give myself credit for. Heck, I sometimes even look forward to it. Well ... kind of.
Michael Artigues, a McComb pediatrician, writes regularly on family and social issues, or whatever strikes his fancy. “meus axilla” is Latin for “my armpit,” which he chose as the title of his blog in honor of his dad, who says that opinions are like armpits: everybody has them and everybody else’s stinks.
