We just returned from a 3 day trip to southeast Indiana, hiking in the Hoosier National Forest. It is a beautifully hilly area with a perfect mix of old growth and young trees. It’s cane heaven if you like making canes. Am. I am so addicted that every time I head to this part of the country, I find myself wishing for trees with the ‘perfect’ bend, notch or branch. I literally can’t see the forest for all the cane trees I see on every sapling. It’s very likely that I’ll be quite disturbed if I step back and look at him. I also wonder as I step back and look at him, if there might be others like me, because I realize that these aren’t really canes.
For me, a cane is an expression of oneself. I would never be able to carry trekking poles or some aluminum pole when walking through the woods. Although they make much more practical sense, as they are lighter and can be used to pitch ultralight hiking tents, I find them bland, manufactured, and lacking in character. I need a club that has a part of me, where I can express myself. For me it is much more about self-discovery than practical necessity. Sure, you can use any stick on the ground to help you cross a river or reach for a friend who’s dangling off a cliff a thousand feet above a canyon (not that this scenario has ever happened, honestly. I just always add it to the list of reasons to have a cane with me at all times).
For me, a cane is symbolic. Moses took a staff and turned into a snake and split the water and split the rocks and made water come out. David carried a staff when he went out to meet Goliath (yes, he really does say that). The 70 disciples were instructed to take a staff with them when they were sent out. There is a strong possibility that Jesus wore one. Psalm 23 has comforted the hearts of readers for centuries with the rod and the rod. So why wouldn’t she want to be in his company? It’s Biblical!
The wood I choose is first and foremost when starting a new cane. Because what a stick is made of determines how good a stick it will be. It reminds me that it is the stuff we are made of that matters more than what we have achieved. I’ve tried all kinds of cane woods. I have found some great white wood sticks (maple, oak, ash), but they are, well, boring. I want something with some color, especially if it has rich heartwood with a white sapwood on the outside. Osage Orange has deep orange heartwood; Walnut or Hickory have a brown center and make beautiful walking canes. It’s funny that people are like that. Some just don’t have much character inside, they’re more or less boringly the same everywhere. No character, no color, no reflection of an interactive Creator.
The second thing I like about canes is the carving. For years I carved with a pocket knife that had a small saw. It was great. Then a friend brought a little carving set with him on a hiking trip that had chisels and gouges in it and he just had to have one. Carving went to a whole new level when I discovered gouges that could hollow things out. That was great. Now in my lazy old age I find that a good Dremel tool saves a lot of blisters. I’m a little embarrassed not to do it the old-fashioned way, but not so embarrassed as not to use it. The price of old age, I guess.
In fact, I’m right about all of this. For me, a cane is a part of me made of wood. It is something that I change, I touch, I affect. It shows that I matter and exist and can do something to impact my world. The cane becomes a reflection of who I want to be, a representation of my own struggle to find my uniqueness. When nothing else goes right in life, when the people I work with don’t grow or change, when the things I work on all day show no improvement, I can see that I’m still shocking when I look down the road. I have turned an ordinary stick into a work of art. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an artist. But it’s mine. It’s me. It is the place where my hand, my life, my heart has touched the world.
My cane also reminds me of all the miles I’ve walked, both on and off the trail. Every time we stop to camp I stalk a bit and more of me goes into the stick. Sure, it’s just a stick I found in the woods, but it’s deeply precious to me, because I chose it apart from the others and dedicated myself to it. The stick shows me as the carver. I use the cane to cross streams without losing step, or to cross rivers without getting wet. I use it to go up a steep hill or to slow down when I’m going down a hill too fast. It helps me keep my balance when I’m wobbling under too much weight, and it gives me a place to lean when I’m pushed past the limits. The stick becomes me, apart from me, my best backpacking friend. But it also ‘becomes’ me in a deeper sense in the sense that it makes me better than I am.
I’m noticing a lot of parallels in the whole cane thing. I realize that I am the staff. I am a piece of wood in the hand of an amazing God who is continually carving me into the best of me. He selects me among all others and walks with me in a unique way. I exist for his glory. He trains me with each camp. He changes me with each lesson. The more we walk together, the more I come into his hand. I become, ultimately, an expression of the Great Carver who takes a silly old stick and extracts the wood from the heart and makes something beautiful, blending the woods from outside and inside to show a joint work that transcends what anyone has done. seen on a single young tree. And we became best friends, me and God.
Something inside me thinks that maybe that’s what life is really about; being a mere stick in the hands of a mighty God. A cane from Indiana, made extraordinary by God carving it into something else.