THE GREAT OUTDOORSMAN

My new college freshman friend was a decorated Eagle Scout. I was kicked out of my Boy Scout pack before reaching the Tenderfoot level.

George asked if I liked being outdoors.

I enjoyed playing football and baseball outdoors, and I practiced basketball in my backyard almost every day.

George was the real life protype for Robert Redford’s Jeremiah Johnson and Leonardo DiCaprio’s Revenant. George had more merit badges than common sense as he convinced a group of small-town refugees to accompany him on our first-ever mountain camping trip.

His cry continues to echo in my memory. “Nature builds character.”

George was an outgoing outdoorsman. He planned a weekend camping trip on White Mountain so a few of us could get away from the classroom grind. The tallest place where I grew up was Cavanaugh Hill, the highest hill in the world. It was only slightly taller than the county landfill.

I packed for the adventure using his supply list. I read up on survival skills, which was its own challenge since Google search was still years in the future.

Our first challenge was climbing the mountain. It was fun, filled with laughter and stories from our high school days. Finally, we found the perfect place to rest. How do I know? George de Guide said it was our spot for the night.

Setting up the tent was the next camping challenge. General George laid out the stakes with military precision, then handed us the instructions. Twenty minutes later, my tent looked like a deflated kids’ bounce house.

The flashback memory was too much. I had a confession to make to George and the crew about my traumatic youthful experience in Cub Scouts.

My parents wanted me to become an Eagle Scout. They placed me in a Boy Scout troop, sacrificed precious dollars to buy me the blue uniform, pay the club fees, and purchase the books and project materials.

I failed to achieve the rank of Tenderfoot, the lowest scouting rank.

I FLUNKED OUT OF CUB SCOUTS!

That is right! I memorized all the mottos and lessons. I learned the salutes and pledges. I did the projects to earn merit badges. However, I failed tying knots!

I could do math and science but not knots. It has been a lifetime problem.

My grandmother used a knitting needle to untie the tight knots in my childhood shoelaces. Thankfully, she was not as forceful as Alexander the Great with the famous Gordian Knot. He untangled the complex knot in one quick strike with his sword.

In Cub Scouts, I struggled to learn different knots: square knot, two half-hitches, and taut line hitch. No knots meant no tent, and no tent meant no Tenderfoot badge.

I was trustworthy, loyal, courteous, and brave; but my mental block was just as tangled as my rope. My knots had names like” Unbelievable” and “What in the World” and “Inextricable.” Yep, boys and girls, my scout knots could not be unraveled!

I lost hope of becoming a Scout Tenderfoot during our Cub Pack’s overnight camping trip. I had to set up the leader’s tent, but it rained that night and the tent fell down, soaking our leader and his clothes. It was funny, except to the Cubmaster.

I was eventually dismissed from the club and kicked out of the Pack. “Do Your Best” was a catchy motto, but if your best failed to correctly tie knots, you were “Knot” in the club.

That failure haunted my life then and now. Humiliation. PTSD!  Knot frustration! A mental Knot Block! Tanglephobia!

Anything with a knot starts as a nuisance and ends as a nightmare.

My associates laughed at my story and my current tent debacle. George was more understanding. He diplomatically called my poorly erected tent “modern art” and rebuilt it in under three minutes, narrating his every move like a future YouTube tutorial.

Tarzan swung on branches while we collected wood for the campfire. Our Eagle Scout scolded us for using matches to start the fire. The show-off caveman created fire by rubbing sticks together.

Dinner was next on the agenda. If we had waited for cell phone invention, we could have ordered pizza delivery. Hot dogs and S’mores made up our menu. The crackling fire provided welcomed warmth.

Connection, reflection, and campfire stories fed our souls with lessons learned around the flames of friendship.

As night fell, the woods came alive with mysterious noises: twigs snapping, leaves rustling, and what sounded suspiciously like a frightened roadrunner fleeing Wiley Coyote.

Our Daniel Boone alerted us that the bears in the area were friendly. Camper friend Joel sarcastically asked if we should expect a visit from Yogi Bear and his loyal sidekick, Boo-Boo.

George reaffirmed we had nothing to fear. How did he know? The Boston Strangler was still on the loose. We were also camping near Fall River, home of the famous axe-murderer, Lizzie Bordon.

They are called campfire “ghost stories” for a reason.

As the full moon rose over the pines, the winter night was filled with howling coyote sounds similar to the music track from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

The climb, the cold, the cooking, and the campfire chats were memorable. The sub-freezing temperature and the proximity of howling wolves were not as pleasant.

I crawled into my sleeping bag, leaving only my eyes visible, like two disco balls in the dark. Our host suggested putting heated rocks from the campfire in our sleeping bags for warmth. It worked, but my sleeping bag’s bottom melted.

We woke up before dawn from our peaceful sleep, relieved that there was no bugle blast, just the sound of Jungle Jim doing his morning exercises.

I extracted my feet from the melted encasing and stumbled toward the campfire. This was one of the few times in life I sipped coffee. No one brought a Coke or hot chocolate. The breakfast of was phenomenal.

Somehow, we made it to the summit just in time for the clouds to roll in and block the view. As we tripped and laughed our way back down the mountain, it hit me: I survived the night and it was fun.

I learned some valuable lessons. I discovered that the wilderness is full of adventure and beauty, and the realization that next time, I am booking a cabin and bringing a cook.

Outdoorsman? Jesus was an outdoorsman.

From the hills of Galilee to the shores of the Sea, he found solace and purpose beneath open skies. He rose with the dawn. He climbed mountains, slept under trees, and walked on water.

He sailed in boats and taught multitudes on the mountainside. He walked down dusty roads, miles and miles from village to village. He noticed the birds and gazed at the clouds. He laid his head on rocks to rest. He meditated in olive groves and along quiet hillsides.

He moved among the rocks and desert wilderness. He appreciated the flowers blooming in the spring and enjoyed the fresh fruit of summer. He moved through the wheat fields ready for harvest.

Jesus taught lessons about seeds needing to be sown in fertile ground, not the rocky byways or among the weeds. He observed the lilies clothed more beautifully than King Solomon in all his splendor,

He taught how the sparrows were so much loved by God that they had no worries. He understood sheep and their need for a shepherd’s care. He called attention to the resilience of the smallest mustard seed.

Storms never frightened him. Surging waves obeyed him. Some nights, he slept in a boat on the sea.

Outdoorsman?

Jesus listened to fish stories and acted as a fishing guide for failing fishermen who landed their largest catch following his instructions. He built campfires in the sand and cooked fish beside the lake.

He shared bread under the stars, the same stars Abraham once tried to count as his heart pondered his promised descendants. The same stars Isaiah declared were beyond innumerable, but all named by God. The same stars in David’s songs that unceasingly declare the glory of God.

Jesus traveled over sea and land to find a lost man crying in the cemetery. He reminded Legion and all his followers that they were never alone, even in the wilderness, even in the darkness, even in the storms of life.

The world was his classroom, the earth his canvas—and in every sunrise and sunset, he saw the handiwork of his Father. In every day, in every place, and in every face, he saw his purpose…to love first and to love most.

Yes, Jesus was an Outdoorsman!

The #1 Textbook describes him as the Rose of Sharon, the Lily of the valley, the bright and morning Star, the Sun of righteousness, the Rock of salvation, the Good Shepherd, the Maker of heaven and earth. Fisher of men.

I hope you will get outdoors or at least look outside. Gaze at the stars. Feel the early morning rays of the sun. Marvel at the moon. Notice the birds in the trees or the geese flying by. Smell the flowers.

Pause and reflect on the glory of God highlighted in the grandeur of a majestic mountain, the beauty of a clear lake, the countless grains of sand on a gorgeous beach, the cascading waves of the incessant tide, the cool freshness of an evening breeze, the rhythm of a sudden rainstorm, the purity of a Winterland snowfall.

The canvas of creation was designed to stir our senses, lift our spirit, and draw us closer to our Creator, the lover of our soul. The outdoor creation invites us to gaze on God and breathe in his life afresh and anew with stewardship and wonder.

Everything was created by him as a display of his glory. Every time we see something that strikes us as beautiful or awesome we should praise the Lord Jesus for giving us this great outdoors to enjoy.

Yes, Jesus was an Outdoorsman!

Jesus prayed and wept in a garden. He hung on a cross on a hill called Golgotha. He saw the skies darken as black as our deadened hearts. And he refused to stay inside the closed tomb.

Jesus was a great outdoorsman! The light of the world!

Let His light shine on, in, and through you…Inside and Outdoors!

EYES UP…ENJOY THE JOURNEY!