All my life, I’ve been learning to wander.
Our world doesn’t like the word wander, I think. Wandering implies listlessness, a lack of direction. But, as the hackneyed expression goes, all of life is a walk. Christians especially should know the importance of a life path—Proverbs 3 exhorts believers to acknowledge the Lord in all their ways, and He will direct their paths.
But when I say that I am learning to wander, I am not concerned with a life path. Rather, I am practicing a brief interlude that takes me away from the busyness of the world—a form of rest. We were made for work, yes, and we are in the world. But we are not of the world. We cannot allow the hustle of our daily lives to crowd out our ultimate call to walk with God. A coworker of mine once put it this way: “If the busyness within us causes us to miss the sacred in front of us, then the business of living has started to overtake the reason for living.”
So my walks are a physical ritual, a quieting of my restless heart and a reminder to seek God. I’ll explore the art of walking using three examples from my own life.
Evening strolls in rural Alabama
When I visit my grandparents in rural Alabama, I take nightly walks around the neighborhood—two blocks in the shape of an analog 8, surrounded by cow fields.
I leave at a very particular time of night. The best-kept secret of rural Alabama is the sunset—the sky, when the sun is just rightly situated in the bleeding orange of dusk, turns from a salmon pink into the most magnificent purple. I like to set out when the sky is still pink. Then I pause to watch the cows in the neighboring field just as the salmon sky reels into a deep indigo. It’s like a great “browning” of skybeef, to use a cooking analogy, which also seems appropriate when discussing cows.
I adore cows. They are unbothered and slow-moving; they invite you to step away from the busyness of the world and simply dwell. Cows are deeply emotional beings too—all you have to do is look into a heifer’s eyes, a heifer that has a calf nestled into her side, and you will see such softness. You can learn a lot about humanity, and a lot about God, through observing cows. Often they will say hello in a sound that resembles mourning. They will call to you, lift their heads and watch you linger, and when they realize there is no danger, they will rest their heads. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I’ve let go of a lot of grief on those strolls.
I do not speak on my evening walks, and if I do speak, it is to pray. Researchers have done much work on the benefits of silence. What they tend to leave out is how moments of silence are often a divine catalyst—a spiritual repose in which God can speak and more easily be heard.
Crisp morning jaunts in Old Town Edinburgh
To quote my first travel piece, “Edinburgh reads like a book.” Too much exposition ruins a good story, but no exposition means there’s not much of a story to work with. The exposition of my time in Edinburgh took place early in the mornings, when the first rays of light broke through the thin navy curtains of the hostel where I stayed. My friend Grace and I would rise before sunrise, dress in the darkness, and leave without a sound.
In Scotland, the morning air during June is crisp. Jackets are a necessity. I would hug my coat around my body as Grace and I trekked up the hilly cobblestoned backstreets of Edinburgh—two hikers on their way to get a fresh cup of morning coffee.
High Street is one of the grandest streets in Edinburgh, a pedestrian-only walkway lined with wool shops, bars, and restaurants. On one corner, wedged between High Street and Cockburn Street, sits a two-story Starbucks in gorgeous Georgian architecture. It’s a welcome sight for anyone staying in a seedy backstreet hostel above a nightclub.
We would order our vanilla lattes and carry them up the staircase, clutching them like contraband. The second story of the Starbucks was always cheery, any brightness of the clouded sky reflected in the orange-soda wallpaper. We would sit by the tall paned windows overlooking High Street as Ray LaMontagne’s “Misty Morning Rain” played in the background. The chill of the morning melted away with every sip. After some time, Grace and I would look at each other and nod—It was time to go back.
The walk back from Starbucks was just as thrilling. The sunny interior of the Starbucks would shift into the gray and blue backstreets of Old Town Edinburgh. By this point the clamor of the city streets had begun, and locals would greet each other across the cobbled walkways in their thick Scottish brogues. I don’t remember any birdsong, but I do remember the faint whistle of the wind rushing through the ornate rooftops.
By the time Grace and I had trotted all the way downhill to our hostel, we would be greeted by the sweet-and-salty aroma of pancakes and ham—breakfast! Inside the dimly lit bar, the floors still sticky from the previous evening’s parties, we would rejoin our traveling companions for our morning fuel.
An overseas trip will strengthen friendships. But if you take walks with a friend, especially before either of you has had coffee, you tend to be very good friends by the end of your time abroad. My walks have provided some of my dearest friends—and some of the best vanilla lattes I’ve ever tasted. I can’t speak for Grace, but those early morning jaunts are some of my best memories in Scotland.
Life-altering conversation on Addison’s Walk
The Christian apologist C. S. Lewis was an atheist for much of his adult life. His life changed after he became a Fellow and Tutor of English Literature at Magdalen College, Oxford. There, he met a Catholic professor by the name of J.R.R. Tolkien. One evening after dinner, Tolkien invited Lewis to join him on a stroll around a mile-long footpath behind Magdalen College called Addison’s Walk. The men talked until 3 AM. Lewis would later call this walk the turning point in his path from atheism to Christianity. Lewis began to reckon with the idea of faith and the narrative of Jesus Christ’s life—the true myth.
Our trip sponsor told this same story to our small group of American students abroad as we stood at the trailhead of Addison’s Walk. “Gather with two or three of your friends,” he challenged us, “and engage with worldview questions as you walk.”
I joined two of my friends, Cat and Anna, and we embarked down the wooded path.
“I took a poetry writing course last year,” I informed them. “My professor showed us a poem by C. S. Lewis. It’s supposed to be engraved on one of the gates here at Magdalen College.”
“Let’s find it,” Cat said. And we did.
What the Bird Said Early in the Year C. S. Lewis I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear: This year the summer will come true. This year. This year. Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees This year, nor want of rain destroy the peas. This year time’s nature will no more defeat you, Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you. This time they will not lead you round and back To Autumn, one year older, by the well-worn track. This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell, We shall escape the circle and undo the spell. Often deceived, yet open once again your heart, Quick, quick, quick, quick!—the gates are drawn apart.
The art of walking lends itself to the art of poetry. C. S. Lewis uses onomatopoeia to communicate birdsong—birdsong that is heard clearly around the entire path—this year, this year. Even more genius, Lewis uses circular imagery to visualize the circular path and his “breaking out” of a lifetime track of unbelief.
I was beginning to understand Lewis’s affinity for Addison’s Walk. “He’s got it; that’s it!” I said to my friends. “We’ve got to reckon with faith.”
Like Lewis, we had to decide what to make of the true myth.
Another British poet, William Wordsworth, lived his entire adult life in a small house with his sister Dorothy on the banks of Grasmere, one of the stunning bodies of water in the Lake District. Most poets, even now, must reckon with a reputation of despair and melodrama—and the romantic poets, notably Wordsworth, solidified that stereotype long ago.
My own poetry journey has been no less melodramatic. When I arrived in Britain, I felt a measure of despair. Moments of answered prayer throughout my visit helped alleviate my fears, but the gloom always managed to return. But as I neared the end of Addison’s Walk, sadness settling like a shroud over my shoulders, I remembered some lines from one of Wordsworth’s poems, “Lines written at Grasmere”:
Sad was I, even to pain deprest—
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here
Upon this lonely road.
I was walking with two dear friends on a literal path that had literally changed lives. I was surrounded by ancient trees, the gorgeous sprawl of wildflowers, and the songs of brave birds that hopped close to our company, tilting their heads at our musings. The Comforter was walking with us. My gloom gave way, little by little, to gratitude.
The Lord was wise when He created the first man and woman in a garden—where they could enjoy the creation they had been charged to steward, and where they could walk with God. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I never feel closer to God than when I am on a walk anywhere, but especially in the woods.
If you have not done so in quite some time, take a walk. It is a sacred thing, a hearkening back to our original purpose to walk with God continually. Physical rest is important, but so is mental rest—walks provide a pause from the incessant activity of the world. The call to cave to the noise is loud, but God provided a way of escape in the way He wired us. We are always walking somewhere, in person or in spirit. Wandering in the middle of life’s chaos is a gift. By all means, receive it.