My Bucket List

I have been teaching a discipleship series at a church other than my own lately. And when I discovered the men of that church were planning a Saturday retreat, it seemed good to me to take part.

The day finally dawned, and while I found myself wishing I could sleep in, true to my word, (as I ALWAYS am, short of contracting Leprosy or something a bit less mysterious) I readied myself and set off for the great “outtadoors.” 

Oh, did I mention that the temperature outside hovered around 50 degrees, and it never ceased to drizzle the entire time we were there?

A few months ago I decided that my life needed “a bit of spice.” For you see, recently I mused that I was far too staid, and way too predictable. And not unlike that old classic with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, “The Bucket List,” it seemed I had things to do, places to go, and people to meet, and I needed to get about doing it; while I still had time.

And so, when one of the guys at the retreat solicited the services of a canoe co-pilot, I proceeded to stretch myself again, though, no doubt, I was visibly reticent to do so. And to be sure, my reticence had nothing to do with the transportation, per se. I’ve paddled a canoe a few times. But at this point the drizzle had ramped up a bit, and “Jane Eyre’s” advice (re. the Victorian volume) registered in my mind. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” She might well have replaced the word, “walk” with “canoe ride” considering the weather with which we contended.

At any rate, Craig and I walked down to the canoe ramp, and as we approached our destination, we turned to see two boys behind us. It seems they had the same idea, and as a result we agreed to take the one most eager to venture out onto the lake. Having donned lifejackets, my newfound friend and I took our seats, front and back, and “Jimmy” was forced to kneel in the middle. 

And true to form for such a day, and such an adventure, the drizzle turned into a steady rain; soaking the three of us to the skin.

And as the canoe drifted lazily across the lake, it was obvious our passenger was, in spite of his having solicited this transport, not a “happy camper.” For every time the canoe rocked to the port or starboard, the 11 year old emitted an almost inaudible moan. And that look on his face rivaled the mask he might have worn the previous Halloween. Jimmy was, to put it mildly, nothing short of miserable, and wished for the shoreline. 

And while I continually assured the boy that we were safe, and nothing short of an “act of God” would deter us from once again walking on terra firma, I think this consideration remained little more than a good theory.

As we neared the far side of the lake, I suggested to Craig that we turn around and make for the canoe dock. By this time the three of us were ready for a little less wet and a little more dry; a little less cold, and a little more warmth.

And stumbling out of the canoe, I almost expected Jimmy to emulate those videos I’ve seen of soldiers returned from Vietnam. But rather than falling to his knees and kissing the ground, he managed a weak smile, a “thank you, sir,” and shook the hand of each of us before rejoining his friend, and “beating it out of Dodge.”

As my boating partner and I made our way back to the group from whence we previously sprang, he commented.

“When they see how drenched we are, they’ll either give us a medal or laugh at us.”

To which I responded,

“Or a little of both.”

I guess I can scratch the “Jump into a canoe with two strangers in a rain storm” off my bucket list now.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 26. Copyright pending

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