As I sit here on this stunning fall morning, I don’t have any particular thoughts on my mind, other than… actually, I really don’t have any thoughts on my mind.… However, since I’m going to head out later this day to the country – where there will be geese practicing for their long flights down south, and pumpkins for sale by the roadsides, and miles of corn stalks, minus the just picked corn; I’ll simply write about that. And to those who have read any of my stuff (who really must have lonely lives), some might think the country is a dull place, without anything to do or any real images to inspire; however, that’s not ever the case. The country is full of imagery, and symbolism, and history, and continuity, and much more. It has life… and peace. For me, the country is the place where I go for my prayer walks, a place where I feel close to and can appreciate God; but also: an escape. Which I need.

We all need places to escape to when life gets to be too much; however, these places don’t just have to be physical ones – like beaches and forests and sunsets and hiking trails; but can also places in the mind. Some are memories, wishes, dreams, and secret you name its; and some are simply the contented feelings we get while sipping hot chocolate or green tea by a fire on a cold evening. And as to this, I’m no exception; as I have a treasure chest in my mind of images, people, places, and times, from the many and varied events of my life. Some I keep with a satisfied feeling; while others… with a wistful smile or sigh. Some are the scenes of the long ago beaches, sunsets, and hiking trails mentioned above; while others are of short talks with people met on buses, people met on intersections, and far off places too distant in time – but clear as glass in memory. However with that said, I would have to say my long walks down the country lanes of northern-Pickering are right up there with my favorites.

Each weekend, and sometimes on weekdays, I take the twenty-minute drive out of the city and head for the countryside of nearby Pickering. And as the highway leads out, and I pass under the signs and underpasses towards the border; I feel the anticipated adventure of the farmland as it oozes into my muscles and nerves. I really feel this. I pass the “Town of Pickering” sign, turn off onto Whites road and head up it a good five minutes, until, suddenly – after the last of the hydro-lines, houses, townhouses, and stores disappear, I’m there: The town of Whitevale. Or more accurately: two miles of beautiful walking away from the town of Whitevale.

As I park the car and hear the crunching of the tires on the gritty shoulder and the popping of the just stopped engine; I take my first deep breath of country air; which at this time of year; is a mixture of corn, dust and occasionally, an early fall fire in some nearby or far off home. Next, as I stretch my hands as far as I can go towards the sky and bend over backwards to hear my back creak; I feel great. I have the rest of the day just to walk, sit, snooze, and do whatever I want. I don’t believe we were never intended to live in cities. God’s majesty is so easy to feel here.

Once I do my stretching, and say a prayer of thanks for the day; I then look over the rolling hills and valleys, and start my walk. My first impression is of how marvelous a country lane is, as it goes as straight as a pencil for miles – past areas of incomparable beauty, and then, out of nowhere, makes sudden curves, dips, and outright dives as the land forces it to do. The roads have filled in potholes that were last filled in, probably, in the 1950s – and that only temporarily; but, on the plus side, there are no stop signs, no traffic lights, and, no cars. (Unless, of course, you count tractors as cars.)

As the walk continues, and I forget the city and it’s meaningless; I feel like I’ve always been here. And as the path continues, and I find just the right field, where the corn is taller than me; I go in, take off my backpack, and simply walk for half an hour or so amongst the growth. Just like that. Once inside, where all I can see is the sky above me, and I feel and am totally alone; I feel great. The only thing to distract me is the dry smell of the corn, possibly a ripple or gurgle of a nearby brook, and the occasional scurryings of the mice, rabbits and whatever others of my little country friends who happen to be going about their business at that moment. Can you believe that while I’m doing this, the people back in the city are working their lives away for their big houses, cars, careers and the rest. I would pity them and bring them out here if I thought they’d come… Anyway, back to the walk.

As I continue towards Whitevale, I pass by the occasional smaller lanes but seldom go up them; this is because they usually have a sign that says “No Exit.” That’s where last week was a little different. As I was returning from the Town of Whitevale late one afternoon, I came past a familiar spot at Whitevale Road and Sideline 28, but for some reason… on that day, I went up the tiny lane instead of continuing down the larger one. And, less than ten seconds later – I was smack in front of an old abandoned country church. Corn everywhere, rusted fallen-down mailboxes, an ancient refrigerator thrown out by the side of the road – and then, a church! There, in the middle of nowhere. I stood there looking at it and marveled at how simple it was – or once was.

What I saw was a building with a small door on the side, huge south-facing windows in front, and a still nice but slightly overgrown garden in front of the windows. The trim was white, and the steeple just peaked above the surrounding trees. Coming out of a church like this; chatting with your neighbors, passing a few notes and exchanging stuff – and with the feel of the sun on your face around harvest time, would have been a real a treat.

It was a few days later and back in the city that I got to thinking about that scene. I thought about all the people who would have gone to the church – and the baptisms, marriages, sermons, funerals headed the list; and after that, it was the thanksgivings, Christmases, end of harvest celebrations and many more events which caught my mind. People back then, especially in the country, must have been much more aware of just how much they depended on God for everything; and how showing gratitude for the before mentioned would have been essential.

As I think a little more about it, I see how God must have been seen differently back then; as the building materials would have had to have been brought from far distances and cost large sums – especially for poor country folk who would have lost loved ones in two wars, one Depression, and numerous large and small ups and down in grain prices. And yet; the church was still built, maintained, and thrived. (The only reason the church is abandoned now is that the government is supposed to build an airport in the area.)

Back then, and in the country; the change from life to death could be in an instant; and the difference between getting by and financial destruction, could have been a simple few weeks without rain. These people depended – in fact trusted – their whole lives to God. The local cemetery has Christian grave markers all over it.

As I think back on that afternoon, I think of the larger lane as being our daily lives; as there was an abandoned public school there (I think that’s what the building was anyway); and that school and its abandonment represents how high we place education; and, how it will not survive. The larger lane also had some nice houses and a golf course as I approached town, which, of course, have their own obvious symbolism. It was the turning down the little lane with the “No Exit” sign however, that makes the point here. We have to leave the much traveled and popular path, and turn down the “No Exit” one, to get to where we should be. The church down that path is God’s home on earth, and the ‘No Exit” represents the journey we must all make at the moment of death. The larger lane – with its corn fields, schools, golf courses, expensive country homes and the rest; will not survive. Only Heaven will.

On that afternoon, the cornfields represented the cycle of life: plant, grow, harvest, eat. Plant, grow, harvest…. The little cemetery represented how all we strive, and fight and claw for will sooner or later pass; but the old church,…showed me that God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are forever.

To the reader, I would say to you; it’s time for us to fall on our knees and tell God we are sorry and that we believe and love Him. And from there, it’s time to change our lives to ones that are lived for God, and not ourselves.