There comes a point every summer when the human soul begins quietly insisting that it was not designed to remain indoors indefinitely.
Now, this realization often arrives gradually.
One notices sunlight pouring through the window.
Birdsong drifts in from outside.
A warm breeze moves through the trees with the sort of gentle confidence that makes spreadsheets and laundry suddenly seem considerably less urgent.
And somewhere deep within, a voice whispers:
“You should probably go outside.”
Now, I realize this may not sound like a profound spiritual revelation.
But I am increasingly convinced that one of the great losses of modern life is how easily we forget that we ourselves are creatures.
We belong not only to schedules and screens and errands.
We belong to creation.
Which means there is something deeply restorative about stepping out into the world God has made and simply allowing ourselves to notice it again.
Now, I should confess that I have always loved the outdoors.
Not necessarily in the heroic wilderness-survival sense.
There are people who possess astonishing camping competence.
They can identify trees, navigate by stars, and produce functioning meals over fires built entirely from damp twigs and confidence.
I admire such people tremendously.
Personally, my own outdoor spirituality has historically involved a slightly greater appreciation for comfortable chairs and reliable coffee.
Grace abounds.
But even so, there is something profoundly holy about leaving behind the noise of ordinary life for a while and entering more deeply into creation.
Because creation itself has a way of reordering the soul.
I remember learning this rather dramatically during the early years of my first parish ministry.
One of the Scouters connected to our parish invited me and one of our parish deacons — Brother Mark — to join him and another friend for a week-long canoe trip.
Now, at the time, I was approaching my thirtieth birthday and considered myself to be in reasonably good condition.
After all, only a few years earlier I had competed in the annual Rivière Canard canoe race.
An eight-kilometre race, admittedly.
But still.
I therefore assured Geoff with complete confidence that I was entirely prepared for a week of canoeing.
This confidence, as events would soon reveal, was not especially well-informed.
There were, it turns out, certain important wilderness realities that never arise during a pleasant afternoon canoe race.
Most notably:
everything one brings must eventually be carried.
Repeatedly.
Over long distances.
Up hills.
In heat.
And since there are no portages on Rivière Canard, this particular spiritual lesson had somehow escaped me entirely.
So when Geoff arrived at the rectory to pick me up, I emerged with several extraordinarily full packs containing what can only be described as every conceivable survival necessity short of the kitchen sink itself.
To his credit, Geoff said nothing.
Though I remain convinced he quietly chuckled inwardly while helping load my mountain of equipment into the truck.
I did notice, however, that the others appeared to have packed remarkably lightly.
At the time I assumed this was simply because they possessed superior camping technology.
In retrospect, they possessed superior judgment.
We drove for several hours and stopped for lunch shortly before reaching our starting point.
Sensing that adventure required proper nourishment, I ordered an enormous cheeseburger with fries.
The others ordered small sandwiches.
Again, I failed to recognize this as meaningful information.
We launched onto the river and paddled for a while before arriving at a massive dam.
At this point Geoff calmly pointed toward a stairway running alongside the dam that appeared to extend upward directly into heaven itself.
There were hundreds of steps.
And every piece of equipment, all the food, and both canoes had to be carried up those stairs through multiple trips.
By the time I reached the top of the first ascent, I found myself reconsidering several major life decisions simultaneously.
Why had I eaten such a large lunch?
Why had I packed so much equipment?
Why had I done absolutely nothing in preparation for this adventure besides possessing enthusiasm?
And perhaps most urgently:
Why had I agreed to accompany these clearly unwell individuals into the wilderness in the first place?
But somehow I survived.
And strangely enough, after that first brutal portage, the remainder of the week unfolded with astonishing peace.
There were more portages, certainly.
But none that ever quite matched the apocalyptic grandeur of that first one.
We paddled quiet waters.
Cooked meals over the fire.
Hung our food in trees to discourage local wildlife from pursuing ministries of theft and redistribution.
And at night I slept with the deep contentment of someone who was completely and utterly exhausted.
Decades later, I still remember that first portage vividly.
I suspect I always will.
But what I remember most clearly is not the exhaustion.
It is the Sunday morning.
Brother Mark and I found a large flat stone near the water, and from somewhere deep within my absurdly overpacked supplies, I brought out the “holy hardware” I had insisted on carrying all week.
And there, surrounded by the quiet beauty of creation, the four of us gathered around that makeshift stone table and celebrated the Eucharist together.
No church building.
No organ.
No bulletin.
No parish hall coffee afterward.
Just prayer.
Creation.
Bread.
Wine.
And the unmistakable presence of God among us.
And interestingly enough, whenever the four of us speak about that trip all these years later, that is always the memory everyone returns to first.
Not the canoeing.
Not the portages.
Not even my spectacular overpacking.
But the Eucharist beside the river.
Which perhaps says something important.
Because sometimes it is only when we finally step outside the noise and hurry of ordinary life that we rediscover how deeply God has been present all along.
The mind slows down.
Breathing deepens.
Perspective quietly returns.
And suddenly one remembers that the world is still astonishingly beautiful apart from whatever anxieties happened to dominate Tuesday afternoon.
Now, Ordinary Time may be the Church’s annual invitation to rediscover exactly this.
After the great celebrations and liturgical intensity of Easter and Pentecost, the Church gently ushers us back into the ordinary rhythms of life.
But “ordinary” does not mean lifeless.
Far from it.
Ordinary Time arrives clothed in green for a reason.
Growth.
Life.
Abundance.
It is the season that teaches us how to encounter God not only in dramatic moments…
…but in the steady beauty of creation itself.
The sunlight on water.
The smell of pine trees warming in the afternoon sun.
The quiet stillness that arrives when one sits beside a lake long enough to stop checking the time every three minutes.
And perhaps that is part of why Jesus Himself spent so much time outdoors.
Mountains.
Fields.
Boats.
Gardens.
Again and again, He drew people back into the living world His Father had made.
He seemed entirely confident that creation could still teach people how to trust, wonder, and pray.
And perhaps it still can.
Now, I realize that many of us struggle to make space for this.
There are responsibilities.
Tasks.
Entire lists of things that appear very persuasive.
But every so often, the holiest decision we can make is simply this:
Go outside.
Take the walk.
Sit by the water.
Listen to the wind in the trees.
Not because productivity has finally been completed.
But because the soul itself needs beauty.
And because somewhere out there — in the woods, beside the lake, beneath the evening sky — God continues quietly inhabiting the creation He has made.
Waiting for us to notice.
Alleluia.
Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual
Companion Prayer
Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty of the world around us.
Teach us to slow down,
to step outside the noise of life,
and to encounter you again in creation.
Open our eyes to wonder,
our hearts to gratitude,
and our spirits to the quiet peace
that comes from resting in your presence.
And in these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
draw us ever closer to you.
Amen.