Reflections from a Walk

Updated: May 26

Today I went on a walk and here is what I thought. I do not mean for this to sound excessively sentimental; and yet, it likely will. ‘Tis not poetic, as may be thought; ‘tis jarring, raggedy, unromantic. I apologize in advance to anyone who reads this writing in its entirety and realizes they have gained nothing from it. Bless the one who sees anything in this save an unordered set of reflections.

Everyone has escaped the house save me and my youngest sister, aged nearly two. She was depressed that she was allowed not to go with the rest of everyone, so I decided that we should go on a walk. We had to find her socks, boots, and coat; I stuck her in the stroller, and away we went. It was cloudy then: some rain had fallen throughout the day and more was yet to come on this fine evening. My family lives in the rocky mountains; it is springtime, so everything is green. The vast overhanging canopy of clouds let in decent light where everything could still be seen. The air was fresh and crisp. As we began our walk we strolled by a particular field filled with cattle. This was a fragmented bunch indeed. Some of the cows had lost their calves due to recent chaos and others, due to their cowish stupidity, were making noise for no apparent reason. These were on our left; on our right was an empty field with only feed. Such was lushly growing.

I have gone on many walks by myself before. Not so much is this recently the case, but it has been. When I walk alone I don’t necessarily walk in a straight line as may be expected. No, that would be boring to do. I walk from one place to another, that’s for certain. Yet as I walk along, I spin along as well: my body and my head are constantly turning around to see what’s up high, what’s down low; what’s behind, what’s in front; what makes noise, what is silent. However, on this walk, I could not do my usual routine, for I was pushing the stroller. My body and entire motion had to be pointed straight, mostly. I couldn’t walk in a circling way; I must walk in a straightway.

At first, I found this repulsive and irritating. Not so much, it must be noted, to not enjoy the walk, but it was an unpredicted and unexpected restriction. Instead of seeing everything, there was to see, I could only see half it. But then I realized something: I noticed the blessing this was. I could not see everything, and, in this case, I couldn’t even try. I had to keep my eyes fixed forward. I was on a journey, forward. Such is life. We are moving forward; we have to keep moving forward. We actually can’t see all things at once. And if we constantly spin around, we could fool ourselves into thinking that we can see everything.

Once I got to the place where we had to turn around, I could see all that was previously behind me; yet I couldn’t see that which was previously in front of me. Due to the clouds, I could hardly see any mountains. The way we were going before turning around was toward the face of a very near mountain; I couldn’t see that far. But on the way back, the clouds were slightly lifted and I could see farther, and higher. On a journey, we go into something less clean; when returning from that journey, we see everything more clearly than we did before. And we see different things.

From the buildings and power poles to the horses, dogs, and cows to the clouds and mountains, it was all beautiful. Even my limited vision was limited because it is limited; and God’s vision is all the more glorious because He is glory. So, I learned several things on my walk, but it was mostly an ever more present awareness of my own limitations. I saw all the particulars I could take in and saw how those indicated something beyond themselves; something Huge. I trod softly, slowly, silently.


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