Bush plane in the Yukon

So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please Him. 2 Corinthians 5:9 (ESV)

I’ve always planned with meticulous detail and over-packed for trips regardless of the duration and distance from home. Molly tells me it’s part of having the “6” wing attached to my Enneagram (google it). I’m the consummate prepper, she says. Truth. I could win the Monty Hall purse challenge most days, and I’ve never been caught high and dry for life’s essentials (nor many of its luxuries) on any given trip away from home. I like to be prepared. It motivates me.

But preparation for my next big adventure is stretching me to new levels. Phil and I are spending ten days in the wilderness of the Canadian Yukon, and I’m looking over my gear – a word that can’t sound refined no matter how you spin it – and I’m hoping I have enough for absolutely whatever. Those tubeless rolls of Coleman toilet paper are looking a whole lot smaller than their digital counterparts on Amazon. (Digital toilet paper – now there’s an idea worth exploring. Sold by the pixel and stored on a thumb drive?) Don’t get me started on what a girl has to do to relieve herself quickly and comfortably while hiking. If you don’t know, Amazon it. You’ll find it in the Paradox Department with the toilet paper rollets, dry shampoo, and the disturbingly small wipes claiming a “full body wash” contained in each one. The one bright spot? My makeup bag will find itself repurposed for first aid items and moleskin. Lots of moleskin.  A make-up free trip is vacation, indeed.

Clothing is another upside. Base layers, a mix and match no-brainer in all black, compress to astonishingly small bundles to allow packing in abundance for frequent changes. Outer layers? Khaki and green, anyone? I like the time I’ll reclaim in not having wardrobe decisions chewing away at the clock. Hiking boots match everything. And pajamas? I somehow don’t think it works like that. (Refer back to base layers).

On the one side there’s the planning to travel. The other side? The planning for if you don’t return. You see, each plane we board between New Orleans and Whitehorse, YK (map here) is progressively smaller. And the one from Whitehorse to the camp? You know when they call from Canada to ask your weight, it’s a small plane. The aircraft is what is referred to as a “bush” plane for its frequent use in making landings in the “bush”. And I will not even mention the critters hiding in said bush. So given the relative dangers, Phil and I are using this trip to do what we all should do at this age in our lives and “get our affairs in order.” Don’t you love the sound of it? We’ll have a schedule of our life’s savings – the sum total of what we “leave behind” – conveniently located on a thumb drive locked away in a fireproof safe. Our words are laced with morbid humor as we call any situation necessitating its use a Code Orange from the color of the drive’s case.

Collecting the Code Orange information paints in sharp relief exactly what we cannot take with us when we make the eternal jump. Like, the unimportant stuff we invest with so much effort to earn, grow and squirrel away. It’s humbling to realize that what we spend all our life accumulating is, in the final analysis, worth no more than toilet paper. And in the proper setting – say the bush of the Canadian Yukon – it might have even less immediate value.

What about that final analysis? As Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 3:13, the fire is going to show if our work and investments have eternal value. We read in 2 Corinthians 3:10, “For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good or evil.” (ESV) The promised future valuation of our time on earth should be sobering motivation to make as much of what we do now fireproof for later. American statesman Daniel Webster said, “The greatest thought that has ever entered my mind is that one day I will have to stand before a Holy God and give an account of my life.” Have I used time collecting more than tissue paper?

Phil and I will be spending time with a Canadian guide we met in 2013. In a conversation during that trip, the guide served up an opportunity to share the gospel on a silver platter with a seeming off-hand question and comment related to the Bible Belt. That remark raised doubts in my mind about his own spiritual condition. I let it pass. I gave a safe answer, and the conversation never circled around to anything resembling another opening. You might say I’ve watched those wasted minutes catch fire in my mind a hundred times. Part of my preparation for this next trip is a resolve to make each moment count for eternity.

On the subject of eternal reward for our work, F.B. Meyer asks for grace to “work while it is day, fulfilling diligently and patiently whatever duty” we may be given. He continues to encourage our “doing small things in the day of small things, and great labors” if called to any. Those crowns we long to hold will be the prize for faithfulness, the final chapter of our earthbound story, and the opening chapter of our heavenly, eternal one. And the good news: if you’re reading this, we’re all still writing the first part of that story.

Hiking the tundra, Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

Like my numbered-list approach to preparation, obedience starts with small things. Squeezing my gear-filled backpack into a small plane and landing in the bush. Taking booted steps of faith across an open tundra of need. Watching closely for an opportunity. Allowing grace and mercy to ease open doors of doubt. Seasoning words enough to create thirst. Preparing for this trip has given me new appreciation for small things. I’ve heard that survival sometimes comes down to packing light. Prioritizing what you carry by its importance not its weight. I can handle small things in the day of small things. And isn’t it really all just that? Small things? I’m not even thinking of the toilet paper. Much.