Walking Together: Lessons from the Forest Path
On the wooded trail behind our home, my son walks ahead of me. He stops at every rock, every bug, every shaft of light. I am learning that the path is not only the destination.
We have a path behind our house that winds through a small stand of oaks. It is not majestic, as forests go. But to my son, it is an entire world.
He walks ahead of me, his legs moving with that particular toddler urgency, as if every step matters more than the last. He stops at a fallen leaf. He crouches to examine a beetle. He points at the light filtering through the branches and says, "Look, Daddy." And I look, because he is teaching me to see.
I am a planner by nature. I like maps, deadlines, and the comfort of knowing where I am headed. But fatherhood has made me walk with someone who has no interest in efficiency. He is interested in wonder. He is interested in the slow discovery of what is right in front of him.
I think God is a lot like that child. Not childish, but childlike in the best way: full of wonder, fully present, and inviting me to notice the miracle of right now. The path of faith is not a race to a finish line. It is a walk with someone who keeps stopping to show me beauty I would have missed.
So I slow down. I kneel beside him. I examine the beetle. And I thank God for the small, patient teacher he has given me.