Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him . . .—Psalm 37:7 (NRSV)

We were on a family hike on the Appalachian Trail, two carloads. Glad to see each other and enjoying the prospect of some exercise in the great outdoors, we headed off, chatting all the while, taking turns to lead the way, following the blazes on the trees. 

The weather was kind—not too hot, not too cold, a summer breeze fluttering through the trees. The conversations rambled; sometimes we’d be chatting in pairs, sometimes a topic would be more wide-ranging, taking us all in. 

Then my nephew Kirk said, “Let’s not talk for the next twenty minutes. Just walk.” 

“Good idea,” we agreed. The leaves crunched under our feet. We could hear the crack of a twig, a squirrel scampering through the underbrush—or was it a hedgehog? Birds called out, the sunlight shimmered, a pebble rolled down the hill. I could hear my own thoughts, worries, gratitude, my breath, a quiet marveling that these kids leading the way, like Kirk, had just been babes in diapers—was it so long ago? 

The hike changed. I wanted to grab hold of the sunlight, pick up a leaf, study a cloud, fly with a bird, linger on a rock. Were the copper-colored striations on that boulder always there or was I just noticing them for the first time? At once, creation felt immensely close. 

We came to the turnoff where our hike began. Our conversations resumed. “Thanks, Kirk,” we said. “That was a great idea.” The silence had spoken volumes. We took off boots and shoes and shook off the dirt, ready to forage for something to eat. We got in our cars and drove off, feeling closer to each other and the Creator, too.