Falling Down
by Don Vermilyea

While walking around I have fallen down numerous times over the past two and a half years. Five of those tip-overs were due to seriously spraining my right ankle and the result is always shed blood and injury. The first of those was day number twenty-two of the walk and it was written about in the May-June 2002 issue of Loaves and Fishes.

Of all the times I’ve fallen only three incidents have happened in public. It has been interesting being a part of the events that unfolded after I’m lying on the ground sometimes injured.

I fell while walking with two friends in snowy Iowa this past winter. Praise God Daniel didn’t hesitate as he reached out and pulled me back up to my feet. I am still grateful for his kindness.

Earlier in Colorado at ten thousand plus feet elevation my new friend, Scott, went above and beyond the call of duty when he lifted me off the pavement. You see, Scott was already carrying my heavy backpack while I was carrying his five-pounder. We were heading down a fairly steep stretch of highway and I was playing tourist gawking at the splendor of the mountains. Landslides are common during the spring thaw in the Rockies, thus, there was a pile of rocks scattered onto the roadway. Usually, I’m carrying my own pack and am being quite careful where I place my feet, but I wasn’t paying attention. My left shoulder took the brunt of the fall and was injured pretty badly. When my right ankle buckles I go crashing, this time due to the steep downhill grade. I continue to be grateful Scott picked me up when he was already carrying my load. Playing tourist is something I do much more carefully these days.

Three months after Scott bailed me out my right ankle folded again, this time because I mis-stepped off a curb in Denver. I was about ready to cross a busy intersection, but ended up sprawled out face first with my heavy backpack stretching from mid-back to well over my head pinning me down. I laid for what seemed like five minutes when in actuality it was closer to a minute, with the big monster on top of me. No one asked if I was O.K. or came to help. They were probably in a hurry doing something important or maybe I looked scary to them, I don’t know. After a couple of minutes I made it to my feet and was stunned and bloody. I stumbled across the intersection and wondered if some of the motorists thought I had too much to drink or maybe I was just out of it. Well, at least no one reached out to me in a negative way. Because, at the time, the walk was many thousands of miles long I wasn’t surprised by the lack of assistance. Not too many of us would help out a staggering bloody homeless-looking man. It seems whenever I’m in my greatest need no one dares to help out, even when traffic is stopped and right next to me.

Late one afternoon I was seriously looking for a place to stay before the impending severe storms engulfed me. Many of the usual places to sleep don’t cut it during thunderstorms. My options are much more limited when big weather is closing in. For instance, a dry culvert becomes risky when rain is on the way.

Praise God, an old abandoned feed store/grinding mill appeared at the right time. A large window and window frame had been removed which allowed me to easily disappear into the bowels of the building. Traffic was non-existent at just the right moment as I “flew” through the large opening.

A feeling of big-time thankfulness overwhelmed me because I knew no one saw me enter my new home. It didn’t make, the place stunk from a layer of bird and rodent feces all over. It didn’t make, it was noisy due to the slapping up and down of many loose metal roof pieces as they kept time with the gusty winds. What did make, was no one saw me and I had a roof in places over my head that offered protection from heavy thunderstorms. At least I hoped so.

The sun was lowering in the west as my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the building. Snooping around for the best place to bed down became top priority. After awhile I noticed the reason for strong odors. The place was home to hundreds of English Sparrows who accounted for the fresh poops, stink, and bird noise. These birds could never get a job in Birdie Choir. “Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet!” Their singing group was louder and less melodic than the banging roof. I continued to be thankful for the twenty-year abandoned feed store. So what, it was tweet, tweet, tweet. I had me a place, where I’d get some dry sleep.

After searching the building for my best possible resting place I found an old four foot by eight foot sheet of plywood that wasn’t covered with excrement and filth. I almost laid the plywood down for cleanliness protection from the environmental conditions on the floor, but dust came out of a six inch diameter pipe twelve feet above where my bed would be. Obviously I wouldn’t knowingly lay my bedding down under a hole in the roof, bird’s nests, or roosting places. Even though I doubted birds would be hanging out in the pipe, I didn’t want to experience bird squirt in the middle of the night. My second choice, five feet away, became my first choice.

Camp was made by laying the plywood down on the poops. On top of the plywood went my ground cloth, air mattress, and sleeping bag. I settled into my sleeping bag and stared at the ceiling above. More dirt and dust dropped down from the pipe and shortly thereafter a small bird, who was desperately flapping its wings, plopped to the poopy floor where I would have been trying to sleep. Is God good or what?! Yuk! Getting hit with a baby bird from twelve feet isn’t something I yearn for. Ever. Honest.

The little thing didn’t move, and if you think I was about to get out of my bed, put on my shoes, and traipse through the poops in order to investigate a baby bird that probably broke its neck, you are highly mistaken. I am the man walking across America for Jesus who needs his sleep. I work hard and don’t have the energy to deal with a bird’s troubles.

After about five minutes the “dead” bird raised its head and yells out, “TWEET, TWEET, TWEET” over and over at the top of its lungs. “Man, I thought you were dead, shut up, and I need my sleep” went through my mind.

Just when the other sparrows had quieted down, this has to happen. “SHUT UP,” came out of my mouth. The little thing then gets up, comes over to me, looks in my eyes, like I was its friend, sits down on my brand-new Gore-Tex ground cloth, and gets under my sleeping bag due to the windy conditions.

“Man, I raised chickens for twenty years! They poop every hour! No way is my new ground cloth going to get messed up! No way!” I uttered silently to myself.

I did the only logical thing I could do. After lifting my sleeping bag to expose it, I took my left hand and “gently” backhanded it three feet away. Honest, I didn’t hurt it, well maybe I hurt its feelings if birds have such things.

It crumpled like it did for the first five minutes after it fell down. I felt horrible. How could I do such a thing to something that was only looking for love, comfort, and warmth.

What had I done? For the first time on this walk something truly needed me and I pushed him away. My mission, my sleep, and my ground cloth were all more important than his little life.

As I walk across America like a needy little bird, stumbling and falling down, I’m constantly “backhanded.” I’m constantly rejected in one way or another, and now with my first chance to share the love of God with something needy, and I blow it.

Dear Heavenly Father, dear God in Heaven, please forgive me. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry . . . .

The little bird picked his head up, marched right back to my ground cloth, looked up at me, and got under my sleeping bag to keep his body warm for a second time.

I didn’t sleep very well that night because I didn’t want to squash him. How would I have felt if I’d found him cold and dead the next morning because I rolled over on him?

Praise God for second chances as he was safe when I lifted my sleeping bag up the next morning. Yes, there was a pile of loosey goosey poop next to him on my ground cloth.

After taking the baby bird’s photograph I laid in bed staring at the pipe he had fallen out of the day before. All of a sudden there was new dirt and dust and another bird falls down out of it. He was just as unsuccessful flying as the first one.

The second one was larger and didn’t wait for five minutes trying to figure out if he was dead or alive. He immediately rose up and started, “TWEET, TWEET, TWEET” and I didn’t mind. My new friend got out from under “our” sleeping bag and started tweeting again. The two of them met in the middle of the poopy floor with such joy and happiness. At least it looked like joy and happiness to me as they high-fived with their beaks. It was like instead of not seeing each other for twelve hours, it had been decades of being split up.

They returned to “our” ground cloth and I took their picture complete with two piles of juicy poop that continue to stain my ground cloth a year later.

Is God Great or what? There is hope and second chances for even old, ornery, selfish people like me. I truly need that hope. We all do.

Till the next time ....

In Christ’s love, Don

Miles to date: 10,949
Money picked up along road: $711.74
Unsolicited money given by motorists: $1,364.03