Last summer I took myself up to a large lake in Algonquin Park for an annual three-day silent, solo, retreat. Like all of you, I welcomed the chance to have a break from managing things during the pandemic. Because my vacation was just beginning, I had to wrap up some work things, finish up some home chores, and pack for the trip, so I was late getting on the road.
The long drive north was uneventful, but it was close to 5:30 pm when I finished making my way along 40 kilometres of gravel road to the place where I would park my car and head out into the “backcountry” of Algonquin Park.
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I loaded up my kayak, evenly distributing the weight in the various compartments, with some things strapped on top of the decks. Packing a 17-foot sea-kayak is an art and takes some concentration. I was aware of the late hour and the 90-minute paddle across open water to the area where I would camp. I glanced at the sky and thought it looked like rain, so I put on a waterproof paddle-jacket and a spray-skirt (to seal the cockpit so you don’t end up in a bathtub) and got underway.
Normally I bring two kinds of paddles with me: a straight-shaft paddle with long narrow blades for travelling distances on relatively calm water; and a bent-shaft paddle with shorter, wider blades for windy, wild, wavy water. I set out with the latter strapped behind me, under my sleeping mat and some other light things, thinking I would be fine with the calm water paddle. But I had failed to study the sky carefully, and 20 minutes out onto the lake I looked behind me to the northwest and saw a massive storm front rolling in—looking like an iconic Tom Thomson painting, but with very real winds whipping up the water and torrential rain (not to mention peals of thunder and lightning off in the distance).
Like the gospel stories of perilous storms arising suddenly on the Sea of Galilee, I was quickly engulfed in strong winds, large waves, and sleeting rain. Normally I enjoy wild sea conditions but with a fully weighted boat and a less than ideal paddle, it took some adapting to keep stable and stay on course (and to stop lamenting that I should have seen the signs before I headed out and used the more suitable paddle).
After I had paddled for a long time, the sky began to clear in the distance, as you can see in the three photos accompanying this column. Soon a perfect rainbow began to form—like a portal to a new world. It was so striking I felt moved to somehow capture what I was seeing even though I was still being tossed around in the wind, waves, and rain. Eventually the single rainbow became a double rainbow—unworldly, beautiful, and beckoning. I knew I was paddling out of the storm.
In March 2020, we were all caught off guard and unprepared for a global pandemic—even though the signs were there weeks in advance. We careened this way and that as we learned to adapt—lamenting the losses while coping with the changes. And the pandemic kept deepening and revealing its frightening contours. But we have kept everyone in our diocese safe, and we have stayed connected with God and one another. We are now carefully making our way out of it. The end is in sight, and it will be so very good to be together again.
Paddling out of the storm
Last summer I took myself up to a large lake in Algonquin Park for an annual three-day silent, solo, retreat. Like all of you, I welcomed the chance to have a break from managing things during the pandemic. Because my vacation was just beginning, I had to wrap up some work things, finish up some home chores, and pack for the trip, so I was late getting on the road.
The long drive north was uneventful, but it was close to 5:30 pm when I finished making my way along 40 kilometres of gravel road to the place where I would park my car and head out into the “backcountry” of Algonquin Park.
I loaded up my kayak, evenly distributing the weight in the various compartments, with some things strapped on top of the decks. Packing a 17-foot sea-kayak is an art and takes some concentration. I was aware of the late hour and the 90-minute paddle across open water to the area where I would camp. I glanced at the sky and thought it looked like rain, so I put on a waterproof paddle-jacket and a spray-skirt (to seal the cockpit so you don’t end up in a bathtub) and got underway.
Normally I bring two kinds of paddles with me: a straight-shaft paddle with long narrow blades for travelling distances on relatively calm water; and a bent-shaft paddle with shorter, wider blades for windy, wild, wavy water. I set out with the latter strapped behind me, under my sleeping mat and some other light things, thinking I would be fine with the calm water paddle. But I had failed to study the sky carefully, and 20 minutes out onto the lake I looked behind me to the northwest and saw a massive storm front rolling in—looking like an iconic Tom Thomson painting, but with very real winds whipping up the water and torrential rain (not to mention peals of thunder and lightning off in the distance).
Like the gospel stories of perilous storms arising suddenly on the Sea of Galilee, I was quickly engulfed in strong winds, large waves, and sleeting rain. Normally I enjoy wild sea conditions but with a fully weighted boat and a less than ideal paddle, it took some adapting to keep stable and stay on course (and to stop lamenting that I should have seen the signs before I headed out and used the more suitable paddle).
After I had paddled for a long time, the sky began to clear in the distance, as you can see in the three photos accompanying this column. Soon a perfect rainbow began to form—like a portal to a new world. It was so striking I felt moved to somehow capture what I was seeing even though I was still being tossed around in the wind, waves, and rain. Eventually the single rainbow became a double rainbow—unworldly, beautiful, and beckoning. I knew I was paddling out of the storm.
In March 2020, we were all caught off guard and unprepared for a global pandemic—even though the signs were there weeks in advance. We careened this way and that as we learned to adapt—lamenting the losses while coping with the changes. And the pandemic kept deepening and revealing its frightening contours. But we have kept everyone in our diocese safe, and we have stayed connected with God and one another. We are now carefully making our way out of it. The end is in sight, and it will be so very good to be together again.
The Rt. Rev. Shane Parker is the Bishop of the Anglican Diocese of Ottawa.
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