The Weight of Worry

I happened to see a photobook on our bookshelves this morning. It was a collection of photos from a backpacking trip my dad and I took ten years ago to Isle Royale National Park. There were pages dedicated to the road trip up to the Upper Peninsula, the boat ride over to the island, the views from the various campsites we had during our week-long adventure, the sunsets we experienced, the fish we caught, the flowers we enjoyed, the wildlife we encountered, and the injuries we sustained.

It was this last page that caught my attention in particular. The photos started with the rather charming bright orange twine that my dad had tied around the toes of his boots to hold them together. The twine soon had to be upgraded to metal wire. Then there were the scrapes and bruises—at one point my dad had fallen off one of the plank bridges. Then there was the gash across his wrist. We had taken a filet knife along to filet the northern pike we had hoped to catch—it was properly sheathed when we started, but it was so sharp that the back-and-forth wobble of the backpack had caused it to cut through its sheath. When my dad reached into his pack on the third day, it sliced his wrist. He didn’t even realize it until I asked him why he was covered in blood while trying to start the campfire. Thankfully we were at one of the two campgrounds on the 40-mile-long island that were near a ranger station. When two rangers happened to stop by about ten minutes later and asked how everything was going, it was pretty hard to pretend everything was okay as my dad held a bloody rag to his wrist and seemed a bit pale (believe me, we tried…). They brought us to the station, cleaned everything out, put some heavy-duty bandages on the wound and sent us on our way.

But the picture that really struck me was the picture of my ankles. There were multiple large gouges in the back of each one. As bad as my dad’s wrist was, this photo was the culmination photo on our page of injuries. These gouges were the result of blisters gone bad—shoes rubbing in the wrong places, each step slowly slicing away more and more of my skin. And while I remember that trip fondly and had an absolutely fabulous time, by the third day, every step was a pain. 

And to be honest, I should have known better. This wasn’t the first time my ankles had been gouged. Indeed, about ten years earlier, the summer after seminary, just before accepting the call to Boston Square, I hiked 300 miles along the Appalachian Trail through Virginia. I had planned everything out carefully—not well, but carefully. I had even made sure to splurge a little and get the high-quality hiking boots. I had the proper boots, but unfortunately I didn’t bother to break them in sufficiently (there were the finals to get through at seminary, after all…). So I still remember hiking those first seven miles the very first day with seventy pounds on my back (way more than I should have carried) and taking my shoes off that first night to find bloody socks and blisters already formed on my feet. The thing with blisters and backpacking is that once you have blisters, it’s almost impossible to get them to heal unless you stop hiking. I tried everything—bandages, moleskin, extra padding, even just covering them with duct tape—but each day they just got worse. 300 miles later, my ankles were a mess. I still have scars on them from that summer.

So I should have known and been extra careful about making sure I had good hiking shoes that were properly broken in for this hike. At least this time I didn’t wear a brand-new pair of boots. But here’s another thing with backpacking—it’s one thing for a pair of shoes not to rub when you’re just walking around your neighborhood. It’s a whole ‘nother thing for them not to rub when you’re carrying thirty, forty, or fifty pounds on your back going down backcountry trails.

This past summer I took our kids on their first backpacking adventure—two nights along the Manistee River Trail. Five miles in with packs, ten miles exploring the next day without packs, and five miles out the last day. I wore boots that I’ve had for a long time. I’ve intentionally worn them back and forth to church through the winter precisely so there would be no question that they were broken in and formed to my feet and would be ready to go in case I ever dusted off the old backpack again. And yet, after just ten miles with a pack, I felt the hot spots forming on my feet and were glad to take the boots off again at the end of our trip without any blood on my socks.

I bought a new pair of hiking boots this fall when there was a sale. I’m in what seems like an endless search for a pair that won’t cause blisters on my ankles. I wore them this morning in the snow as I walked the dog. They were great—soft and comfortable. Provided solid support across the icy spots. But I have this nagging feeling that things will be different when I’m carrying thirty or forty pounds on my back and every step is unforgiving.

That’s not all that unlike life. It strikes me that it’s that much harder to get through life, to make it from day to day, to not be wounded, when we’re carrying heavy burdens on our shoulders. Whether that’s worry or anxiety or anger or fear—the weight makes every step harder. Sometimes it’s guilt or shame or simply holding grudges against others that slowly over time eat away at our soul. “Do not be anxious about anything,” Paul tells us in Philippians 4:6, “but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

I admit, these days in particular, this is hard to do. Especially with all the unrest in the nation’s capital—the United States seemingly more divided than it’s been in generations and more prone to turning to violence. And then there’s the pandemic and all the uncertainty that still lingers and the hospitals in various parts of the country overwhelmed with patients in the ICU. And right in our neighborhood there are seemingly nightly gunshots that ring out—a massive change compared to not knowingly hearing a single one for the first sixteen years we lived in this house. And that’s just stuff beyond our family…. It’s hard not to worry…but when we do, especially when worry weighs down upon us, it can be incredibly destructive in our lives.

Paul’s not telling us not to be concerned, not to be involved or not to do what we can to help. He’s not telling us to pretend things aren’t bad. Rather, he’s telling us how to respond when things do get bad. He’s telling us to trust God. To turn to God. To place our lives in God’s hands. We don’t know how things will turn out in the short term—sometimes it might well be not the way we might like. But we do know how things will turn out in the long term—we know that they will be good.

As I walked around in my comfy new boots this morning, I wondered how they would do once I took them out on an actual backpacking trip. How would they hold up with that extra weight on my back? How would my perpetually tender ankles respond to this new pair? There’s only one way to find out—and I look forward to one day heading out on that next adventure with a backpack on my back. When it comes to life in general, however, I’d rather walk around without that weight on my shoulders.