by Bruce Campbell

Down by the river at dawn, I saw a fisherman holding a pole over the railing and walking slowly and steadily along the length of the wharf. He was trolling ... on foot.  Another man, hands in his pockets, leaned his fishing pole against the railing and stared out at the glassy, smooth water. In the early morning haze he and the river both seemed caught in reflection. The traces of a full moon in the western sky looked over my shoulder, watching me as I watched the sun rise up from the rosy mist.

I woke up early this day and took a walk about town. Life was stirring everywhere I went. The day holds out new promises. At this speed, about 3 miles per hour, the town looks different. I saw things when walking that I would have missed ... gardens and porches, a cat in the window, a man trolling the wharf on foot. An hour of this a day, the doctors say, is even better than an apple. To walk in this way becomes a form of prayer.

On a Sunday in late May, there were many people walking in prayer. It was our annual parish CROPWalk. The CROPWalk raises funds to help people all over the world provide themselves with food, water, and sanitation. It also helps our local food pantries. I felt like the angels were at work Sunday, bringing together over 300 people from thirty or so different churches. Some were pulling children in wagons. Some had injuries or disabilities. Some were quick and fit and some not so swift and not so prepared for such an effort. Yet on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, we all offered ourselves to this cause and chose to spend our time in this way on behalf of others. That in itself is a walking prayer.

After awhile, on the CROPWalk, my feet and my hips began to hurt. Yet, I knew that if I really needed to I could stop walking and wait for the “Toe Truck” to come and rescue me. The people for whom we walked did not have that choice.  They might walk six miles or more just to retrieve their water for the day.  They might not have the best of shoes or have shoes at all.  They might have to walk this way every day in all sorts of weather. So I continued to walk ... and my walk became a prayer. My discomfort became a prayer. It was a prayer of remembering, a prayer of thanksgiving, and sometimes it was just about being in the presence of God. At this speed, about 3 miles per hour, I had time to look around and to look within.  At this speed ... I was prayer walkin’.

[Bruce Campbell is the rector at St. Stephen's, Wyandotte.]

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