Story #2: Bread of Life

Bread of Life

Suggested verse: John 6:35 – “Then Jesus declared, 'I am the bread of life, he who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.” Bread. Bread. Panera Bread. Wonder Bread. Ugh, I can’t believe I just considered Wonder Bread as something delicious. Wait, no. I should be thinking about Jesus right now! Praying to Jesus, not drooling over Panera Bread and imaginary bread bowls with cheese and broccoli soup with maybe a cookie or ten for dessert. I take sips from my Nalgene and try to trick my cramped and empty stomach into believing this filtered lake water is food. No, I’m not thirsty and I am most certainly not hungering for righteousness.

Another verse: Isaiah 58:11 – “The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” I take my pen and underline this verse. I like it. It speaks to me. I smooth the pages of my Bible, the first Bible I could call my own. But instead of tattered and bursting with post-its and highlighted verses, mine is clean. Too clean. The kind of fresh new Bible that has barely been used. The kind that reveals almost too much of me – me, a Christian girl at a Christian school that should’ve been reading a Bible since birth. Instead, this Bible was a recent gift from my field hockey coach only eight months ago on my first day of preseason. All of the freshmen get them, engraved on the front with our jersey number.

I use my pen as a bookmark and close my Bible, resting my head on it as if it were a Tempur-Pedic pillow. As I approach hour number sixty on the first fasting experience of my life, death is near. It must be. I imagine all of my friends back at home, just beginning their summer break: “When’s Megan coming back? Isn’t she on some fourteen-day hiking expedition?” “They don’t let her eat for two days! It’s called fasting.” “What! Is that some weird Christian thing?”

Branches crack and I quickly sit up, only to immediately lie back down when my head spins. Our two leaders, Greg and Caitlin make their way toward my area to tell me to start packing up to return to the group. They move on another hundred yards to tell Grace the same thing, then Jacqueline, then Amy. I crawl to my knees and then fumble with my overhead tarp, tearing out the cords and stuffing them into my pockets in the most unceremonious way – definitely not the techniques of a skilled hiker. I stuff my dirty clothes, empty bug spray, and poison ivy cream into my sack and sit on it, waiting impatiently for their return. Ten days of intense hiking with people I didn’t know was exhausting and I was soon dying for this solo time, but two days without human contact soon had me craving more then food – I wanted company. Even if it meant that I would have to make small talk during the hikes. As much as I hate get-to-know-you games and basic questions like “So where are you from?” I missed the jokes and the shared complaints about the bugs.

We walk up the hill and pick up Caroline on the way. And by “walk up” the hill, I mean struggle up the hill. My eyes blur and I try to focus on the back of Amy’s head but I can feel my legs giving out. Even the hottest days of field hockey preseason or the flu or the physical exhaustion from a hard sprint couldn’t compare to my weak, exhausted body – still wondering if I’d successfully filled up on righteousness or not.

They drop the five girls off at camp and they continue on to the other side to collect the five boys. We aren’t supposed to talk until everyone is back together so I kill time by poking Amy in the back to get her to smile at me. Her face is swollen and puffy, her ripped bug net is abandoned in her hand. The boys return, slowly marching to meet us at the campfire and their beards are longer, with sickly faces and pained expressions.

Once everyone’s circled up, we begin to sing the doxology (our agreed-upon reentry song). Raspy voices are heard for the first time in over two days and they praise Him from all whom all blessings flow. I whisper the words, barely able to get a note out: Praise him all creatures here below. My eyes slowly close and I have to lean back onto Amy, worried that I’m going to collapse before we finish the last part of the song. Soon enough, the sound of Amen breaks our silence and the chatter begins. Greg and Caitlin have a meal prepared for us to break the fast, and we gather around close, sharing stumps for seats, kicking off our wet hiking boots to warm by the fire.

“Who’s turn is it tonight? Who hasn’t done their life story yet?” Everyone looks around and I pretend to tie the laces of my hiking boots.

Caroline gives me away: “Megan! It’s your turn. Share with us.”

Share? SHARE! I can’t possibly share. I mean I knew this day would come but still, somehow I hoped that maybe they would forget about me and maybe I wouldn’t ever have to talk about the four F’s: Friends, family, fun, and faith. I worry that I’ll accidently let it slip that maybe my parents aren’t “saved.” Maybe I’m not saved – I’ve never used that word before. I barely know what born-again means and after ten nights of others sharing their life stories as pastors’ kids or missionary kids, I’m lost in a sea of Christian vocabulary that leaves my life story feeling inadequate and un-Christian. Unfamiliar terms I know will sound awkward coming from my tongue. My voice feels foreign and scratchy and my palms sweat as I anticipate their questions. Caroline smiles and nudges me: “Go ahead.” I clear my throat and begin.