Walking Around Olander: The Collection

A view of a small park, a little lake and the people who go there.

All rights reserved.

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least—and it is commonly more than that—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say a penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shop-keepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them—as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon—I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.” - Henry David Thoreau

“They heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day.” Genesis 3:8

Breakout

I love to walk around Olander in the early morning, whether the air is bitingly cold or warm and moist. Both atmospheric conditions exist in this great lakes region, along with nearly every other possible combination of the elements on the spectrum. Stepping into the outside air and working into a rhythmic stride has a cathartic effect on both body and mind. Since I have a built-in bias toward intellectual pursuits (more accurately known as a sedentary lifestyle) like reading, writing and complete immersion in news websites, my brief foray into the dreaded exercise world the first thing in the morning constitutes a daily victory for me. Sometimes, prayer is like that. Cherish even the smallest breakout from your carnal preoccupations and breakthrough into a God moment. Big things always start small.

Walk To Love

Olander helps, but to be perfectly truthful, I don’t love to walk, regardless of the time of day or choice of trail. In recent years, however, I have come to accept my ambulatory obligations as a necessary evil. It does make me feel better, it clears my head, and it makes my doctor happier. My blood pressure always moderates when I walk at least four to five times a week. Such physical failings greatly annoy me, and I still have difficulty in believing that I am becoming my father in the aging process. Surely, life consists of more than routine physical exams, poring over lists of side effects from medicines, and wondering if something I ate will explode inside me or make me black out. Remember, Enoch walked with God. Did he learn the same things? Is it possible that even if we love to walk with God, sometimes we have to walk to love God? Does that make sense?

Olander

Okay, Olander. It’s a small community park near my house, in Sylvania, Ohio, about two miles south of the Michigan line. A trail of a little more than a mile encircles a thirty-acre lake. Massive oak trees and lovely maples give the sense of country, even in an increasingly urban setting, and the trail attracts frequent strollers, joggers, skaters and bikers. Fishermen, (fisherpersons?) spend countless unproductive hours there, at least pursuing their sedentary life out-of-doors, and occasional trout derbies or tri-athlons cause the population to swell seasonally. Although park officials regularly tend to the park’s constant needs, the actual ownership lies in the busy paws and webbed feet of the squirrels and ducks that go anywhere they choose on the property. They have no rules, and I often have to step over their disregard for human decency on the pavement. This paragraph is for information only. Everything in life does not have to have spiritual significance. (No, “fishermen” is right. They are all men.)

The Goose

There is a Canadian goose at Olander who thinks she’s a duck, proving that waterfowl also suffer personality disorders. This goose hangs around with her squattier cousins who don’t treat her particularly well, but she doesn’t seem to mind. When flocks of her own kind interrupt the park’s tranquil setting with their incessant honking, she shows no affinity towards them at all. Notwithstanding her powerful illusion, she will never be a duck. Maybe she just doesn’t like geese. That means her life will be defined by what she thinks she isn’t, rather than what she really is. Do I reject the person God created me to be? Do I resent who I am? If so, then illusion, not truth, will rule my life.

Oak Leaves

Oak leaves hang on long past their lifespan. I have observed this while walking around Olander. Their thin, brown, sere existences rattle in the winter’s wind, refusing to let go. Finally, the spring shoots of a new generation push them off their branches, and the John Deere mowers mulch them up with the rest of the clippings. Blessed is the leaf that understands the cycles and rhythms of life, and creates a place for those who come after him. He spares himself the embarrassment of an unceremonious dumping in the springtime when the world belongs to a new generation. Let him take comfort in knowing that the new leaf will be pretty much like him, with perhaps a new ruffle or shade of coloring. Oh yes, there are some leaves that remain against all odds, but they may only be found on dead trees.

Exercise

Nowhere is the battle against the flesh more evident than in making yourself exercise when you have something else on your mind, or you just don’t feel like it. I have argued with myself, shamed and berated myself, called myself names and tried every trick in the book to push my carcass out the door. It doesn’t work that way. I have to simply decide to do it, and I dare not discuss it with myself. It is non-negotiable. I have discovered that everything begins in the mind, and most of the time it’s while I lie in bed contemplating the day. If I permit even the smallest excuse to get a toehold in my thinking, I may as well forget walking. Spiritual success travels along a similar trajectory. If you allow your flesh even to have a spot at the discussion table, you stand to lose the day. It’s best to shut up and lace up when Olander beckons.

Ice

Drizzly weather combined with plummeting temperatures can cause the trail at Olander to quickly crust over with ice formations. Ridges, clumps, too-thin skims and clandestine slicks hidden under innocuous layers of snow slow down my progress. Slogging through half-frozen puddles and forced off the trail by wide patches of ice, I often fume at the ineptitude of the plow and salt crews. It seems to me that they should work 24/7, making sure my every step remains safe and pleasant. I grumble even more when I notice that the sidewalks leading up to their offices always get cleaned. But, when push comes to shove, I have made up my mind to be the better person. I will keep walking, regardless of the treacherous conditions that discourage me. Yes, staying healthy may be one of the most dangerous things one does. (Kind of an exercise in futility.) Spiritual health goes by the same rules. I have learned that no one will ever care as much about my walk with God as I do. I must risk or die.

People

People of all sizes and shapes come to Olander. You’ll see the portly, red-faced man whose lower belly sometimes fights free from his sweatshirt waistband as he toils around the lakeshore. Chatty, pink and turquoise exercise-suited grandmothers socialize in twos and threes on the asphalt trail. Focused fitness devotees may as well wear blinders as they brush past you on their workout, creating a considerable breeze. I particularly like the long-legged, gentlemen who amble along, gobbling up two and a half steps to every one I take, while showing a kind, friendly smile, like it’s nothing, really. Some solo walkers pucker up within themselves, never glancing in anyone else’s direction, let alone speak to them. Others never shut up. Fashion statement people prance around, along with the meanderers, the plodders, the apologizers, and the schmoozers. Red, yellow, black and white; burqa-ed, parka-ed, hooded and bared, they all come to walk. If you ever want to know the breadth of God’s expansive love, size up the cross-section of humanity that shows up at Olander.

Locked Out

One Thanksgiving morning I decided to sneak in a walk before things heated up preparing for the annual invasion of the relatives. As I approached the gate, the glint of the steel lock was my first clue that it was locked, well, other than the gate was shut. I knew that the park crew faithfully opened the gate every morning at seven o’clock and locked it at dark. I stood there in disbelief. They couldn’t do this to me. I didn’t have time for this nonsense. Besides, I thought of it as my park. Insulted, rejected, hurt, I finally decided to encircle the park via neighborhood streets. Yes, I realized that the park crew had to have a life too, and that they probably had a right to take off three major holidays in the year, but still, I felt spurned and excluded. For the workers, it was probably easy to put a lock on a gate; in fact I imagine they felt pretty good about it. For me, it’s easy to lock people out of my life, too. Do they get hurt, and try to find another way? I wonder if they get lost in the attempt.

Proving What?

Even the female ducks have to admit that God did a fabulous coloration job on the males, the mallards. Like many Olander patrons, I enjoy watching their luminescent green heads bob in earnest conversation with the drably decorated hens, probably conducting a spirited defense of their ceaseless preening. It’s especially fun to watch all the ducks in the early days of winter, coming in for a landing and then sliding unexpectedly on a new skiff of ice for ten yards or so before hitting the water. The clannish Canadian geese utilize posh Olander’s comforts too. Sometimes as many as twenty will circle the landing strip and slosh to rest with their brakes held straight out. They float around in some sort of powwow formation, and then, for no apparent reason, they take to the air again. Along with all the birds and squirrels, they provide daily happiness to park-goers. That’s why it irks me to see people, mostly kids, but sometimes chronological adults as well, harass the wildlife, without provocation. What’s the point? Proving their superiority? Finding pleasure at another’s expense? Do I do the same to people in my life? I must remember that offending others is stupid.

Foggy Or Fuzzy

Sometimes, you just can’t win. For instance, I’ve worn glasses to correct my nearsightedness since I was twelve. Walking in the depths of winter, however, I have to tighten my balaclava so it covers my mouth and nose. (Plus a bulky coat, hat, gloves, two pair of pants, and additional layers of shirts underneath.) All I can stand to expose to the bitter cold are my eyes. The air proceeds to freeze my glasses, which, in turn, causes the moist air that I exhale to fog up my lens. The dilemma I then face comes down to foggy or fuzzy. One choice is to cock my head sideways to peer through two square millimeters of unfogged lenses, bumping into trees and port-o-potties, thus appearing to my fellow walkers as another strange, but interesting, creature who frequents Olander. The other is to remove my glasses altogether and steer myself around the trail using fuzzy and feint outlines for guides. I usually take off my glasses and put them in my coat pocket, hard to do while wearing thick gloves. Most of life’s choices present no clear-cut, black or white, wonderful or terrible, stunningly beautiful or sinfully ugly features. You can’t always choose the best. But you can always choose the better.

Alternative Trails

When I began to walk seriously, I avoided Olander. I detested the sameness of the park setting, preferring instead to explore all the inviting streets in the neighborhood. I got eyefuls of how people lived; I sized up their houses, inspected their lawns and salivated at their gardens, especially the tomato plants. I thought scenery change is what made walking interesting. But, it could take so long. Promising streets turned out to be cul-de-sacs. Long blocks with no passageway to the next street over stretched out for a mile, compelling me to walk farther than I anticipated. Dogs, skateboards and construction barriers made walking even harder. It was the sidewalks, though, that eventually got to me. After a snowstorm, half the homeowners never bothered with a snow shovel. Either I tromped through the deep snow or detoured into icy, busy streets. In the summer, uneven walks interrupted by curbs, irrigation systems, vehicles parked over sidewalks, and drivers who hate walkers became too exasperating. I went back to Olander. Alternative trails may seem more attractive than the same ol’ same ol’, but the security and faithfulness of familiar people and places are hard to beat.

The Drill

One frigid winter day, I rounded the southeast corner of the trail and saw several fire trucks and some emergency rescue vehicles idling by the rental boat dock. The paramedics were standing around talking, so I knew there wasn’t a crisis going on. They were there to conduct an under-ice rescue drill, and Lake Olander was the perfect spot. Twenty or so days of near-zero temperatures had frozen the ice to a thickness of twelve inches, making it strong enough for an operation like this. Chainsaws in tow, they converged on a convenient area close to the boathouse, and proceeded to rip a large hole in the ice. Three of the men, as my son Ross later informed me, were expert divers. They had to spend a certain number of minutes submerged in the cold water, ranging far from the opening, as though they were searching for actual survivors. While they were unhurried, they were dead serious. They had made a solemn commitment to rescue people and save lives, and they were willing to practice the procedures to do it. I see people all the time who need to be rescued, not because they fell through the ice, but because their faith failed or their hope gave out. I’m good at shaking my head at them. Why don’t I take training to help people as seriously as paramedics do?

Competition

Clock-wise walkers meet counter-clock-wise walkers around Olander. No problem. You nod the obligatory “Hello” and keep going. It’s when other walkers travel in the same direction that subtle competition creeps in. “Okay, smarty-pants, so you can walk faster than me. I’m not impressed. (Is this a guy thing?) Well, if you want to pass me, then pass me for crying out loud. Don’t just loiter around in my blind spot. Alright, I’ll just walk over to the side and act like I’m tying my shoe until you get around me. But, if I do that, the people behind him will catch up with me too. That would be too humiliating. Maybe I’ll just pick up my pace. You know, you really bother me! It’s people like you who take all the enjoyment out of walking. You probably feel pretty smug about pushing me around like this. I’ll tell you what, as soon as I get in shape, we’ll see who can out-walk who. Whew! I can’t keep this up. My gimpy knees and this burning in my chest will force me to drop out and head home.” Of course, my fellow walker is totally unaware of my internal cogitations. Isn’t it amazing how we gin up our own anxiety level with imagined conflicts? Hypersensitivity to others only turns out to be permission to hurt myself. Permission denied.

Image

Unless you’re into designer clothing, walking outfits aren’t terribly important, so long as they meet a modicum standard of comfort. Except during the winter. More times than I care to remember, I’ve rushed out the door to Olander, not thinking about the chilly temperature. I had shoved my arms into a favorite jacket (probably my black, satin-lined one with the button-down pockets and the Pebble Beach logo that I actually bought from the Pebble Beach pro shop), zipped it up and took off down the street before the cold penetrated the thin layers and I knew I was not dressed warmly enough. But no stitched logo, no amount of flashy color nor any trendy design (not that I care about such superficialities) can make up for shivering half to death. It may look good, it may feel good and I may be proud to wear it, but it ain’t good if it doesn’t do the job. If I am committed to walk outside in all conditions, I have to be willing to look like an old hayseed or the abominable snowman. I wonder if there are some places in life I can’t reach, or some people I will never help because I care too much about my image.

Beautification

The squirrels and ducks are probably as mad as hornets, who themselves don’t seem too upset. It’s just that humans never leave well enough alone. Without permission from the de facto furry and feathered owners, the well-intentioned Beautification Citizens built a new wooden footbridge over the creek that zigzags roughly across the northwest corner of the park, and is all of a jump-and-a-half wide. This ruins the section of Olander, called the “back forty”, which attracted the fewest number of people, and aside from the mowers, retains its undisturbed natural state. After the bridge came the fixed benches, the flowerbeds lined with prim, diagonally set bricks, the boulders, and the calligraphic signs attributing the proper blame to the culprits. I have often wondered why natural isn’t good enough least some of the time. I’ve witnessed more destruction in the name of beautification, more downgrading in the name of upgrading, more hurt in the name of help than I care to remember. Many of our cosmetological adornments would be unnecessary if we were to make real changes to our values and attitudes.

Mental Trails

A friend with whom I share my Greek roots tells me that every Greek is a sidewalk philosopher. Maybe, but I believe that walkers often become philosophers too. In my excursions around Olander, I give profound thoughts opportunity to percolate through my mind. Well, sometimes I just ruminate about paying bills or what I’m going to do about certain teenagers living under my roof, but at least walking lets me think without interruption. Occasionally, these daring cerebrations dive into the deep water. Like the time I began to think about process. Too often, we catch people in snapshot poses at some incomplete point in their life processes, and judge them. But process not only takes time, it desperately needs time to haltingly work its way toward maturity. Long ago, for example, slavery proponents were challenged to examine their beliefs. Many did and became passionate abolitionists. Judged too soon, they would have been denied their personal epiphany. Judged too soon, there may never have been a Lincoln. Where am I in my processes? Where are you in yours? Are you ready for the finals, or do you need a little more time? “Judge nothing before the time.” (1 Corinthians 4:5). Ah, a thousand delightful and somber trails wend through Olander!

Rules

The large yellow letters routered into the brown wood convey a clear message: No pets allowed. Olander remains exclusively for humans and wildlife. I haven’t asked, but my guess is that pets might have been welcome in the early days, but several bad incidents and a host of complaints led to a change in policy. I can imagine the cat and dog fights that must have gone on. Maybe a dog even attacked some child. What’s more, who wants to constantly watch where he or she steps? Still, the rule seems a bit harsh. No pets at all? Come on. Of course, being petless, I have no dog in this fight. But what damage could one of those Chihuahuas that measures less than six inches long and weighs thirty ounces and fits in a coffee mug possibly do? Or a five-inch Yorkshire Terrier? We have all discovered that rules and common sense aren’t necessarily synonymous. Any given rule can seem silly to any given person. But the same rule that annoys me today may save me tomorrow. We may not all love the rules, and we may not love all the rules, but without rules we can’t live together. The sign stays.

Danny

I gave a eulogy for a friend, Danny Mounts, at his funeral. I couldn’t conceive of a book about Olander without including this passage. “This morning, as I was out for my daily walk, I passed Danny’s favorite fishing spot on Olander Lake. On the northwest side of the lake, between the oak tree that stands close to the water and the point where the shoreline bends toward the east, Danny threw his line into the water too many times to count. He knew when it was the best time to fish, what bait to use and how to work the line. Opal still has trout and other fish in the freezer from Danny’s successful fishing trips. All of us, except maybe the fish, are going to miss his familiar figure sitting by the lake.” After the service, when the procession left the church, the funeral director honored Danny’s last request. We took a detour from the normal route to the cemetery to drive through Olander, a first for me with thirty-four years of pastoral experience. It was a final salute to a man’s love for fishing, and the beloved spot at Olander Lake where he loved to fish.

Investment

Some overgrown evergreen bushes and a sandlot volleyball court recently gave way to a new, cedar-sided office building on Olander’s east side, between the maintenance garage and the Nederhauser Community Hall. Other than the sacrifice of the bushes, the contractor blended the building into the park setting quite well. Olander now has five main buildings, including the two shelter houses on the lake’s west side. Before you yawn and hasten to turn the page, let me remind you what new construction means. Progress. It assures the community that the park’s future is bright, and that it’s worth the investment. The truth is that we invest in whatever we value…and not just buildings and property, or stocks and bonds, but people too. When we invest time and interest in each other…and in ourselves…we reveal the level of our esteem. Self-improvement indicates high self-esteem. So, go ahead. Add a new room to your heart. Expand your horizons. Your stock will go up.

Drivers

Danger lurks on the trails at Olander. Like when I’m dodging traffic. Motor vehicles can access about three-quarters of the trail, and some drivers forget where they are. Speed limits and speed bumps work about the same at the park as anywhere else—-they don’t. And drivers drive differently in the park than out on surface streets. I’ve seen them eat lunch, drink coffee, play with the kids, gaze into their girlfriend’s eyes, stare hypnotically at the wildlife, swerve over for the skaters or joggers behind them while looking in the rear view mirror, watch some lucky fisherman reel in a trout, holler for a lost dog, slam on the brakes for an imperturbable mallard who shifts into second gear when approached on foot, but waddles fearlessly out in front of a three thousand pound vehicle, or spy a good place to pull over and park and do just that without warning. Pay attention. We share our lives with all kinds of people whom we have to look out for, and they better look out for us too…at least for me. I also drive.

Wanted

The kid struck me as odd, not the kind of person I would usually see walking at Olander at eight o’clock in the morning. In his late teens, hair uncombed, loose-fitting khakis barely hanging on his hips, sport shirt unbuttoned to show his tee shirt, and wearing leather street shoes, he moved along at a fast pace. He seemed friendly enough, and we said hello to each other. I thought little about it until a policeman in a patrol car motioned me over and asked me if I had seen anyone who matched the above description. I said yes and pointed out the direction the boy went. The policeman spun his cruiser around and headed up the opposite side of the lake. Another patrol car joined in the pursuit, but they came up empty-handed. The cops thought the suspect might have been breaking into cars in the Sylvania area and had cut through the park to escape arrest. I had been within an arm’s length of him, but I had no idea he was wanted. Who knows but that I had been just as close to him some other time as well, maybe the mall, or supermarket, long before the police chased him. Maybe the reason he was wanted that day was that he was unwanted the day before.

Wind

People who study the wind speak of the “Coriolis effect.” It describes the downward force of air from the poles that skews as the earth rotates, creating visible effects on the planet. Railroad tracks wear out faster on one side than the other. (I checked it out with an engineer. It’s true.) Rivers dig deeper trenches into their beds on one side than the other. I can’t say if it’s responsible for the uneven wear on my walking shoes, but I do know that wind makes walking seem more like working. On a windy day, as soon as I enter the park from the gate on the west side, I know what my walk will be like. The rectangular-shaped park lies in a north/south direction, and a cold north wind gathers speed as it sweeps down the lake. That means I’m going to freeze as I make the south turn. If the wind blows from the east, a storm is probably brewing. The strongest winds come from a westerly direction, but most of the time, the trees provide enough break to make walking pleasant. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The wind will always be there. And, whichever way the wind blows, I lean into it and keep walking.

The Quiet Place

Bright blue paddleboats and small aluminum rowboats lean neatly against each other at the boathouse on the east side of Olander Lake. On warm summer days, many patrons rent them and slowly peddle or paddle themselves out over the lake. Lots of dads teach their kids how to fish at leisurely pace, and the boats provide great fun for special groups like the kids from the Ronald McDonald house. Off the point just north of the rental dock, a boat launch allows private owners to put canoes, inflatable rafts and even sailboats into the lake. The one exception: no motors. The lake is too small for speedboats and jet-skis anyway, and it would be tragic for the racket from outboard motors to drown out the screeches, chomps, quacks, honks, calls, chirps, twitters, songs, whistles, swirls and splashes—-all the really nice noise—-around the park. Absence of sound does not a quiet place make. True quietness floats in on soft waves created by paddles slipping into silent water, or by God delicately raising his baton to direct nature’s orchestra. It puts the soul at ease.

Brave

One day a car approached me while I was walking across the parking lot on the east side of Olander. The driver asked me a question in an accent so heavy that I could not understand him. After several attempts to rephrase the question, I finally realized he wanted to know if there was a community hall in the park. Happily, I informed him that there was indeed a community hall and that he was sitting in the parking lot for it that very moment. I motioned back to the one-story building behind me, built in a simple “L” shaped, lodge style, with a large deck on the back overlooking Olander Lake. Six-inch letters emblazoned across the front of the hall identified it as the Nederhauser Community Hall. As I walked away, I felt somewhat annoyed because the guy wasn’t observant enough to look for a sign, and probably wasn’t capable of reading it when he did find it. Later, I recalled losing my way while jogging in a certain European city. I had no ID, no money, couldn’t speak the language and couldn’t read the signs. All I could do was wait until my wife and friends came looking for me. I judged this man to be brazen. I should have thought of him as brave.

Serious Walkers

Walking can get serious, believe me. Do you practice pronation or supination? How efficiently do you swing your arms? Do you walk 20-30 minutes after ingesting caffeine into your system? Extensive research into this rather mundane practice has produced details I’ve never even thought about. We can know the most effective times to walk, the optimum seasons, altitudes, temperatures, barometer readings, inclines, walking surfaces, distances, paces, eating and sleeping habits, medicinal intakes, lunar cycles, weights, shoes, clothing, breathing rhythms, and styles of walking. Companies publish periodicals called “Walking Magazine” and “Rambler”. People actually write books on walking. Websites cover a myriad of surprising subjects for walkers, like “How To Walk.” Organizations like “Shape Up America” attract many members. You can even hire walking coaches, for the love of Pete. But, don’t disparage serious walkers. Whenever you need advice you don’t go to the novices, you go to the experts. Lots of people talk the walk. We need those who walk the talk. (To the editor: Clichés are okay if they’re used differently.) (To the reader: don’t you just hate looking up words in the dictionary?)

The Grumps

Granted, the joys of Olander are relative, but some walkers remain oblivious to all of them, either because they don’t look for them or they’re convinced they don’t exist anyway. One poor soul I see from time to time seems to push her somewhat rotund body around the trail with spite in every clumpy step. I like to think I can coax a smile out of the sourest person, but Mrs. Grump moves nary a facial muscle. Only her jowls quiver as her shoes pound the pavement. Her puffy face, framed in dull knit scarf, glowers with a permanent frown. She resists even acknowledging my cheerful presence as we pass. Can one’s life be so hard, can problems be so acute, can a person be so utterly empty, that he or she cannot muster a half smile? I don’t think so. Too many quadriplegics have lifted my spirits to convince me that joy cannot be resuscitated. I’ve been comforted by too many victims of muscular dystrophy or multiple sclerosis, and held the hands of too many patients hit with a terminal illness…all of whom made me feel like a million bucks…to buy into chronic negativism. Look for opportunities to lift people up. Live the abundant life. Exit smiling.

Sometimes, You Just Can’t Walk

Things come up, like an early morning trip to the airport, too many early morning trips to the bathroom, (or trips over the lousy caster on the way) or blizzard conditions that stop your walking plans in their tracks. “No walking today,” I murmur to myself. Making the decision not to walk, with varying degrees of agony, still sets off a twinge of guilt in my conscience, even when it’s clearly not my fault. This is good. I always want to feel guilt, not relief, whenever I can’t walk. But, the fact remains that there will be no walking on a particular day for me. It happens to all of us in our spiritual walk. God, however, keeps on working even when we quit. I’ve watched as he ingeniously weaves the threads of our problems into powerful spiritual experiences. Great things often happen when you are going nowhere. When Elijah’s life was stalemated and he found himself in deep depression, God spoke to him in a still, small voice. Sometimes, you have your best walk when you can’t walk.

Evening Walks.

A different mood prevails at Olander in the approaching darkness, with an early moon and some bright stars often visible against the retreating sunlight. The pace slows, people relax, laughter echoes over the lake, and mouth-watering aromas of charcoaled hamburgers and hotdogs (or kibbeh and tabbouleh) hang in the air. As a sultry summer draws over the lake like a Louisiana bayou, however, evening walkers had better come prepared for picnickers, kids, legions of volleyball players, heavier traffic and mosquitoes. My advice is to get your walking done in the morning and enjoy your evenings on the back deck or porch of your house. But if you couldn’t—-or didn’t—-get out there in the morning, make it in the evening. A clergy friend was once criticized for arriving late. He replied, “I would rather it be said that the Reverend is late, than for them to speak of the late Reverend.” I lost my Reverend father to a heart attack when he was sixty-nine. His generation considered exercise frivolous. I wish I had convinced him that it was not too late to start walking in the evening of his life.

Work

Jeremy Ross, my middle child, worked at Olander one summer. He would always fill us in on everything he did during the day. He weed-whacked, power-washed and resealed the Nederhauser deck, wrestled rowboats and paddleboats into and out of the water, held the hands of renters so they wouldn’t fall into the water, moved fences, dug postholes, hosed down restrooms, raked leaves, policed the grounds for litter, trimmed hedges, fed dead tree limbs into chippers, mulched bushes, mowed grass, cleaned out maintenance garages, swapped out implements, serviced the equipment, politely gave directions to park patrons, asked rude people to remove their pets and was single-handedly responsible (I’m sure) for the operation of the entire park, a remarkable feat for a seventeen year old high school senior. Well, sometimes he helped the policemen at the park sub-station eat donuts, and on rainy days he shot the breeze at the boathouse for hours on end, but that was rare. Work. It is indispensable to anything worthwhile, and appreciation for something will grow exponentially in proportion to the amount of work done on it. If you ask God for a closer walk with him, I think he’s likely to say, “Work on it.”

The Soccer Tots

There’s no politically correct way to describe a bunch of wild, screaming kids anymore, so I will leave it at that. The first time I heard them I thought some shocking atrocities were underway, right in our quiet community park. As near as I can tell, they bolted, without warning, from vans and SUV’s that had pulled into the north parking lot in the early afternoon and began to tear around a make believe track on the back forty. Walkers broke stride and bikers nearly lost their balance as about thirty kids, four through seven years old, took over. The Olympians immediately sprinted into the lead, while the youngest and smallest—-probably included because their moms hassled the coach who didn’t want them to play because their birthdays were a month too late for the recruiting age—-ran, hip-hopped and stopped while looking around in abject fear. The rest crowded into the middle of the pack, trying to respond to the yells of their coach to pick it up. These were the soccer tots. They were rambunctious, loud, full of energy and having the time of their life. I haven’t seen them since the Beautification Citizens improved the playing area with flowerbeds benches and boulders.

Unwanted

One morning, I saw a large Canadian goose limping by the side of the trail a few yards ahead of me. She emitted a pitiful honk, and as I got closer, I saw an odd-colored bump on her upper left leg where it joined her body, as if it were broken or bitten. She needed help. Her mate stood guard in the middle of the trail, not far away. He also gave out a sickly honk. But, it was obvious that neither one of them wanted me around. Had I approached the injured goose to help her, I would have had a fight on my hands. Other walkers passing by at the time felt as helpless as I. I walked on. On my second lap, both geese were gone. I don’t know what happened. I think I should have done something, but I didn’t know what to do. I have a book in my library entitled, “Helping Those Who Don’t Want Help.” The author, Marshall Shelley, reminds the reader that even Jesus Christ did not get through to everyone. “He came to his own and they did not receive him.” Many helpers have training in crisis intervention. Sometimes they can make a difference. For the rest of us, though, we have to wait for the right time. The key word is wait. Most of the time, we walk on.

Money

If you, the reader, want something to be thankful for, try my delete key. I just spared you from a less than scintillating analysis of Sylvania taxes, a paragraph that I spent considerable time to put together accurately. The only thing you need to know is that no community can have a place like Olander unless the taxpayers are willing to pay for it. One of the most insidious hang-ups of our society is the notion that money is math. My wife’s grandfather ran a farm in northern Indiana and when anyone complained about the offensive odors of the barnyard, he would always correct them with a twinkle in his eye, “It smells like money to me!” Taxes may look like waste and excess to many, and much of the time, that’s true. But taxes also look a lot like flowers, a pleasant walking trail, a place to fish, shelter houses for family reunions, play areas for kids and a wildlife refuge. When something has true value, forget the math. Pay for it. It’s what money is for.

Dependency

A wood-framed and glassed sign attached to a tree on the lake’s east side says, “Please, don’t feed the waterfowl.” Those who love to scatter food scraps and watch the ducks and geese come to feed may think the prohibition is cruel and repressive. The sign, however, carries this explanation: “Regular feeding of the waterfowl can cause dependency on people for food and spread disease. Keep the wildlife wild.” When the nice people with the bags of food leave and don’t come back for a week or two, the waterfowl go hungry. They become conditioned to eat from human hands, thus they lose their skills for hunting food in the wild. Good advice, but not just for waterfowl. Just as good for people. Feeding people at the public troughs creates dependency for food and a lot of other things too. What did people do before the days of welfare? Turn to crime? No. Check the statistics. They turned to their innate creativity. My Dad painted and papered houses, cleaned windows, installed screens, fixed cars and did whatever he could to take care of his family in the waning days of the depression. Waterfowl stay healthier and safer when humans refuse to feed them. So do humans.

Untold Stories

It’s a heartwarming sight. In an isolated corner of the park they nestle close to each other like any contented married couple would. I’m not so naïve as to think, however, that they’ve always lived in such peace and serenity. Their stories would probably curdle your blood…stories of vicious attacks, jilted lovers, flighty suitors, marital spats, raucous fights and power struggles. Feathers have flown and fur has flied. Innocent young have been victimized. The wounded have retreated to the sidelines to recover, some scarred for life. Entire family structures have been savagely dismantled. Afterwards, the broken relationships eventually heal, indiscretions forgiven, and vices (the small ones, anyway) overlooked. Life settles down and goes on…at least as long as you-know-who doesn’t come nosing around again. Who knows what dramas play out on any given day while we walk amongst them? Yes, life can be just as tumultuous for ducks and geese it is as for humans. And, for all the pain and sadness we humans hear about daily from our own kind, we don’t know a fraction of the truth. The vast majority of our fellow travelers stay silent, hoping life will go on. We walk among them as well.

Prayer Walks

Prayer is good. Walking is good. Marry the two together and you have a new trend in Christian circles: the prayer walk. I’m not surprised, because walking easily lends itself to spirituality. The most renowned spiritual leader in history, Jesus Christ taught his disciples through the peripatetic method. In the prayer walk, people walk through their neighborhoods and pray for people or situations they see, like schools, policemen or the elderly. This can become a big event, but it doesn’t have to. One person can do a prayer walk. I’m glad, because many of my walks around Olander develop into a decidedly spiritual, albeit solo, adventure. Praying enhances the quality of a routine walk. Scriptures become real, like “…walk in love, as Christ also has loved us.” Ephesians 5:2. Or, “…walk in the light, as he is in the light.” 1 John 1:7. Need some love and light in your life? Maybe you can’t stop by a prayer room. Maybe the hassle and distractions of work or home keep you from connecting with your spiritual needs. You can “prayer walk” your way into a new dimension. The gate at Olander is now open.

Starting Over…Again

Once I stop walking, it’s tough to get going again. My body sends a series of beguiling deceptions to my brain. “Hey, I’m fine. Not to worry. You really don’t need to pull me away from your laptop and drag me around the park. Here. Flex those knees. Not a bit of pain.” I take a couple of deep breaths and busy myself with other pressing duties, like holding on the phone for someone who is trying to figure out how to explain why he didn’t answer, especially when I know he saw my caller ID. I first start to notice that somebody has been lying to me when that afternoon nap looks better and gets longer than before. My stamina runs out sooner, and that chronic knee pain suddenly returns on a long haul up a short flight of stairs. I’ve gotta walk. My dad used to laugh about the smoker who swore he knew how to quit. “I’ve done it a hundred times!” Well, I’ve started back to my walking routine enough times to know what to expect. Get out the door. Stretch. Take it slow. Build back the muscles. It’s really not the physical part, anyway. Once I counteract the lies that my body tells my brain, the rest is a piece of cake.

Things You Can Do In A Park

Walk. Read. Sit. Run. Ski. Think. Talk. People-watch. Lie down in the grass. Fish. Swing. Ice skate. Slide. Write. Study. Row a boat. Romance. Grill. Eat. Listen to the birds. Smell flowers. Make cell phone calls. Nothing. Dream. Whittle. Ride a bike. Count ducklings. Play hockey. Watch squirrels bury nuts. Nap. Swim. Tan. Wax your car. Stretch. Explore. Laugh. Get your feet wet. Make footprints in the sand. Drink iced tea. Relax. Pray. Meditate. Play catch. Have a party. Listen to a CD. Jump. Push a wheelchair. Hold a kid’s hand. Exercise. Roller skate. Look at the backyards of the houses. Play games. Catch up on old times. Lean on trees. Picnic. Breathe deeply. Skip. Race. Teach. Memorize. Draw pictures. Find animals in the clouds. Feel the wind blow through your hair. Make friends. Snap pictures. Be lazy. Put a kid on your shoulders and walk amid the trees. Play peek-a-boo. Decide where you will go to college. Plan your retirement. Serve volleyball. Try to find fish in the still water. Hang out over the dock. Watch a plane fly overhead and imagine looking down on yourself. Wonder if the passengers looking down would like to be where you are.

Glass

On warm summer mornings, when the wind doesn’t blow, Olander Lake becomes glass, giving it a certain magical aura as if it were suspended in time. If you catch it just right, the angle of the sun reveals a light dusting of pollen, cottonwood seeds, miniature leaves and bugs that have settled on the serene water. While it is quiet, the water is not stagnant. A sudden swirl of a bluegill, trout or even bass breaking the surface will soon show that the lake is alive. Still water shows what choppy water hides, like the v-shaped ripples from a lone duck that nearly touch opposite shores before feathering out…or a fish subtly nibbling at a worm dangling from a bobber…or the impressionistic painting of the oaks on the east shoreline… or the sandy bottom where bluegills make their beds…or the early morning mist that gently hugs the lake’s soft ceiling. Sometimes, lots of action is fun. Other times, I like the quiet. When the wind dies down and the waves subside, beauty and grace descend on the lake from out of nowhere, and appreciation for God’s creation wells up from within. I think appreciation is a quiet word.

Things Not To Do In A Park

Hurry. Argue. Make the kids be still. Pay bills. Criticize. Fight. Diet. Stay on the beaten path. Hurt someone. Squeal your tires. Build a fire anywhere other than a grill. Leave a fire burning in the grill after you’re done. Insult someone. Worry. Watch a video. Watch the clock. Be nervous. Sleep. Litter. Bother the wildlife. Pluck flowers. Keep your shoes on if you feel like taking them off. Fear a little mud on your knees or backside. Fuss about the ants. Smoke. Cross another fisherman’s line. Annoy people. Straddle parking slots. Hold a table for people who never come. Forget about the garbage you left on the table after eating. Complain. Climb trees. Break limbs. Vibrate the entire sixty acres with your 1000-watt amplifier blaring through your sub-woofers so big that you have to slide in through the sunroof to get behind the wheel. Frown. Curse. Deface. Write graffiti. Spend more than an hour in the john. Break park property. Throw a Frisbee into someone’s baked beans. Consider yourself above the rules. Run over strollers on the trail. Leave strollers in the middle of the trail. Speed. Be negative. Wonder whether there is a God.

I Used To Run.

Asthma kept me from running very much as a kid. I always wanted to run, however, and in my late thirties, having outgrown my asthmatic condition years before, I started to jog for exercise. Gradually, I began to rip off four and five mile stints at a time. But, as many runners discover, the constant impact of my feet hitting the hard pavement took a toll on my knees and ankles. I finally had to quit, but I didn’t replace it with any other kind of physical activity. Hypertension forced me back into exercise, and walking seemed like the best thing to do. Now, I understand the superiority of walking over running. Runners are self-absorbed, always looking down to make sure of a safe landing for their feet and they notice little of their surroundings as they pass. They can’t look around; they’re going too fast. Walkers, on the other hand, have time to drink in the scenery, pay attention to fellow walkers, watch out for traffic and still get an excellent cardiovascular workout. Isaiah said, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” You start out flying. You hit the ground running. You end up walking. That’s where I am and it is good.

It’s Not Yosemite

Ansel Adams, the renowned photographer, would not have practiced his artistry at Olander. His black-and-white tonal marvels played out better on the sheer cliff faces and expansive purple mountain ranges of America’s west, a far cry from Olander Park’s flat sixty acres. This park, to be frank, started out thousands of years ago as part of the infamous Black Swamp in the hinterlands of western Lake Erie. When Toledo (once called “Frogtown” because of its swampy past) grew up, the land now claimed by the park lay out in the unregulated boondocks. What’s more, God did not sculpt the lake with his creative hand. Diesel-powered bulldozers and earthmovers scooped out dirt to build a freeway interchange and underground springs filled in the hole with water. Times have changed, however, and a respectable neighborhood now surrounds Olander. Lacking a divine imprimatur, it has nevertheless become special to the people who walk there…and run…and fish…and sit…and talk… It may not be Yosemite, but you can’t go to Yosemite every day, either. The farther you walk down your personal pathway, the more you find that life contains few spectacular views. It really comes down to what you do every day. Olander is an everyday kind of place.

Walking With Someone

The ancient sage asked, “Can two walk together, except they be agreed?” Walking melds differences and ties hearts together. My wife walks with me on many of my trips around Olander. Our marriage has never been in trouble, but if it had, walking together would be a great way to resolve our problems. First, just being in someone’s presence leads to conversation, and talking is a pretty good way to begin working things out. Second, walking together lets you share sights, sounds and experiences that occur along the way. It’s funny how watching a mallard and his mate snuggle up, or a mother goose protecting her goslings suggest attitude-improving tips to a husband and wife. Third, walking makes you to defer to one another to match strides, get through gates or get around other people. That’s called working together. One person can’t have his or her own way all the time. Last, you do have to keep your voices down because of those other walkers on the trail. There are days when you need to walk with someone. When you share a walk you share a life.

Going Places

My travels have permitted me to walk in fabulous settings. I’ve paced the boardwalked beaches of Lahaina, Maui; the streets of Honolulu’s Waikiki district; the austere promontory of Nauplion, Greece; Broadway’s glittering sidewalks, and the walkway along the beach at the Inn at Spanish Bay, in Pebble Beach. I’ve spent early mornings pounding the pavement of Orlando and the quaint streets of St. Stephan’s, New Brunswick. I’ve walked among the homeless in downtown Phoenix, coughed at the fumes in Los Angeles airport area, dodged traffic in Milan, Italy, climbed the artsy hills near the Sacré Coeur in Paris and fended off stray dogs in the Kifisia district of Athens, Greece. I’ve soaked up the sun walking around the harbor in Cabo San Lucas on the tip of the Baja Peninsula in Mexico, and I’ve marked off the times parading around the promenade deck on a cruise ship. Many other ordinary places like St. Louis, Columbus, Salinas, Mt. Vernon and Salt Lake City make up the list. I have found in my life’s walk with God, mountaintops of radiant joy and outrageous blessing—-and detours into dark valleys—-lightly sprinkled among the ordinary venues of ordinary pedestrians. But, every step is good when God remains the constant.

Watchers in the Grass

The new generation attacks the clumps of grass in fitful flurries, rooting, grubbing and digging with their tan bills in hopes of finding morsels to eat. So intent are they on their busy pursuit of food, Olander’s goslings seldom lift their heads or extend their necks to see how close I am to them. They don’t have to. Mother Goose stands like a beacon among them, with dad not far away, not even the slightest crook showing in their necks, making sure I don’t come one inch closer than the imaginary line they have drawn out for the clan. If I do, they either move their brood quickly away from me, or challenge me with ruffled feathers and warning honks. I can come up on these same adult geese by themselves and it is as if I don’t exist. Yet, when I approach them with little ones present, tension immediately fills the air. These are the watchers in the grass. They do not act according to rational thought or constitutional law, but on powerful, God-given instincts to protect their young. Man, however, can rationalize his instincts. Our young would be safer if we couldn’t.

Walking Hurt

Every war has its bitter realities. A soldier trips over a mine, gets caught in enemy fire or feels shrapnel rip through his body. Parasites invade other infantrymen. Some lose fingers or toes to frostbite, get bitten by snakes in a swamp or eat poisonous herbs that set their insides on fire. But none of them are hurt enough to go home. They get patched up and pressed back into service. Civil War soldiers went back to the ranks without arms, fingers and toes. Some even returned with amputated legs, using rifles for crutches. These are the walking wounded. They suffer in silence. They get no sympathy. Not hurt bad enough to die nor well enough to lead, they fall back into the pack and march on. They hold no dreams of glory, no aspiration to medals of honor. They just stay in the army. All right, this may be a little melodramatic, but it makes the point. There are limits, but don’t let minor hurts negate your walking orders. Go slower if you have to, or take shorter walks, but keep walking. Walking with God may also mean walking with pain. Joseph, Moses, Daniel and almost all heroes of the faith, acted against formidable odds. It’s far better to do good despite the pain, than succumb to wasteful repose. The one is difficult, the other deadly.

Tree Planters

Big oaks and cottonwoods dominate Olander’s tree population, no doubt owing their existence to the forgetfulness of squirrels and the snows of cottonwood seeds that inundate the Midwest every June. Park walkers know about other species too, like Douglas Firs, Honey Locusts, Sycamores, Sassafras, Black Walnuts and a variety of maples and evergreens. These weren’t all random plantings. Tree planters, themselves a rare species, envision those legendary poems of God where most only see empty space. They measure time in decades and centuries, not months and years. The hurried pace that pushes of the rest of us has no effect on them, and they make time their friend. I envy them. I love trees too, but I lack the interminable patience of the people who plant them. Today, when I see a tree by the trail or across the lake, I see heart…a life…a planter’s statement of faith in their vision. God, grant me the faith to plant a vision today.

Walking Essentials

What makes a great walk? The right tools. But, you have to go way past shoes, wind pants, sweatbands and hats…and herbal nutrients or trail maps. Sporting goods stores don’t carry the stuff you really need, either. And even if you buy them, the neat paraphernalia won’t get you out of bed in the morning after the new is gone. You need intangibles. You need out-of-control curiosity, insatiable interest laced with old-fashioned nosiness, incorrigible wanderlust and irrepressible desire. You need a limitless capacity for joy and sheer delight because you will come across them in great abundance at unexpected times. Make sure you have tiny pockets available for slivers of wonderment that need further study when you get home. Take a roll of photographic memory, rechargeable batteries of perseverance, brilliant flashes of insight and magnetic brainpower to record the panoply of sounds. Without these essential items, the gear you collect will wind up on sagging closet shelves and, eventually, sacrificed in garage sales. Don’t walk for your health only. That’s drudgery. Walk for your life.

I Don’t Have Time

Busy, important people never have time. Admit it and be done with it. If you had the time to walk, you’d be out making another million, right? Who wants to be a pedestrian, anyway? (Ordinary, unimaginative, uninspired). Nope, you don’t have time. Speed by Olander and glance sideways at them wasting precious hours drifting in sailboats, or getting hooks wet, or endlessly circling a lake while spewing meaningless drivel to similarly unoccupied drones. Not you. It’s productivity all the way. Make every minute count. Save time. You know, like the slogan, “Get in, get out, get going!” And, all the time you save by not walking, you’re putting into a time bank, right? Good. Just cash it in when you get ready. Precisely what an unnamed friend of mine did…or planned to do. It was really sad, though, because three very short years away from the first withdrawal, his bank closed down. Yeah. I heard the assets were non-transferable, too. Oh well, if the kids can’t have your remaining time, they can probably get that unspent million.

Olander Thoughts

If you walk far enough, you will see everything you need to see.
Out of earshot, most people pleasers don’t.
As the wind blows mosquitoes away, big thoughts drive out petty grievances.
Rainwater reveals the lay of the land.
Scavengers come for the scraps because they are unwelcome for the main meal.
Dream about doing important things, but not about being important.
The reason I walk is because I have someplace to go.
Why do the ducks always misread my motives?
Kids will always throw mud in the water as long as they are kids.
Don’t marry face, body, brains or brawn; marry heart.
Watch out for people who can’t laugh at themselves.
God reserves his most spectacular views for those who get out of bed early.
Why simulate when you can go there yourself?
Time forgives no one who refuses his offerings.
Go to the trees; they will not come to you.
True love can only be validated by action.
Not wanting something is equal to having it.
Walk slowly through the crowd.
If you’re not going to think about the solution, don’t think about the problem.
In business, say only what is necessary; in love be lavish.
Don’t die from someone else’s disease.
Appreciate the gratitude of others, but don’t rely on it.
Isolation is dangerous.
First, you must care.
Think, decide, and then act boldly.
Plan all the way to the end.
Master the art of timing.
Despise the free lunch.
Never change too much at once.
Learn when to stop.
Once in awhile, tear up the agenda.
Your relationship with God comes first.
Reflection is a later by-product of looking into the water.
Where you walk determines how you walk.
Progress is more a function of direction than distance.
Most of the time we see what we expect to see.
A pebble in your shoe is worse than a tree limb across your path.