By the Rev. Jon Rieley-Goddard

More pix here.

   Dear friends,

    The Reverend and I spent a week of vacation during August with some of the members of her family. We rented a couple of cabins at Selkirk Shores on Lake Ontario, about three hours away. The highlight of the week was the time that we spent trying out a tiny paddle boat that I secretly built in our basement and gave her just before we left for vacation.

    If you had wanted to try out the little boat, you would have had to have gotten in line. And it was a long line. Of the nine of us who were there, eight tried, and raved, about the little boat. The youngest paddler was 8 and the oldest was ... well, mature. Payloads ranged from less than 100 pounds to more than 200 pounds. Heights ranged from 4-foot something to 6-foot something.

    I built the boat in about 40 hours of work and spent all of $75. The plans were a free download from the Internet. I also premiered a sailboat that I had been building since the weather warmed in April. This boat, a beauty in its own right, cost several times as much and consumed many, many more hours of building time.

    I went sailing in this new boat once. And rowing once. And the whole time, I was kicking myself for not building a second little paddle boat for myself so that the Reverend and I could enjoy little waters together right then.

    As soon as I got back home from vacation, I got a few sheets of plywood and some lumber and started working on a second paddle boat. This one is for the Pastor (that’s me). I’m a few hours into the project; last night I attached the sides to the frames, and tonight I’ll glue things up and put on the bottom.
Instant boat. Just take some plywood and add water. Stir. Launch. Enjoy.

***

    Sometimes I live in the country, sometimes I live in the town.
    And sometimes I take a great notion to jump in the river and drown.

    So goes a verse from that old favorite song Goodnight, Irene. Bet you didn’t know that that seemingly pleasing ditty that we all learned as kids had such a dark side.

    And maybe you did.

    Sometimes I try and try and try, and the results are meager, disappointing, and embarrassing. Sometimes I get up to preach and feel like crouching down behind the pulpit when I realize that my message is thin and pinched. At such times, I need to regroup myself. Although I don’t take a great notion to jump in the river and drown, I do take a great notion to launch on the river, or the canal, or a little lake, and regenerate.

    It’s like liquid prayer. Just add water, and say amen.

***

    I’m talking about joy.

    What do you do to feel joy? I build boats, and share them with friends. And the Reverend. Especially the Reverend, giver of joy and laughter.

    Things like boats, and people like family give me joy.
    Preaching gives me joy, and so does sitting over coffee after the service each Sunday, and listening to the murmur of voices of dear ones.
    Books give me joy, and my old cat Sparkie gives me joy. And my ratty old pickup truck, which saved my life one fateful day on the freeway (a different story) give me joy. As someone said in something I read the other day, sometimes we lose such things as a good old dog or a good old truck long before we get tired of them. And I’m far from tired of my old cat and my old truck. They give me joy every day.

***

    When I want to kick myself around, I can always fault myself for not praying more. When I come to my senses, I realize the joy that I feel and the love that I have for my life are my prayer. And the building of boats is my prayer, and petting my old cat is my prayer, and on and on. And driving my ratty old truck. And laughing with the Reverend.

    All prayer. All the time. No seams, no pauses. No regrets. No debits.

    Loved and forgiven.

    Prayer can be hard work. If you think that you must pray in a certain way, and that you should pray every night upon going to bed, the way you were taught to when you were small, prayer can be hard work. And you can always add the self-criticism that God has given so much, and asks so little in return, that the least we could do would be to pray every day.

    But I close my eyes, and when I do, I see that little paddle boat, waiting for me in the basement, gleaming with intention and emerging personality.

    And I say amen.