Five summers ago, my husband and I traded blueberry-lined wooded trails and lakes for sidewalks in town, neighbors on every side, and a short walk to the local coffee shop. I’ve grown fond of both spaces for their particular beauty and familiar sounds.
In these seemingly endless months of pandemic, however, I long for the shifting shadows of towering trees and the crunching sound of rocks and sticks beneath my sneakers.
Maybe it’s the incessant, random chatter in my head that has me pining away for solo walks in the woods.
How long should we homeschool our son with special needs? Am I doing enough for him?
What will become of our country after this election?
When will it be ‘safe’ to re-engage our community with our immunocompromised son whose needs prevent him from wearing a mask?
What is our family’s future in camp ministry, a vocation considered non-essential in pandemic life?
How do I keep my own feet tender as I rethink how to walk with those who bear calloused heels, hardened from their refusal to acknowledge the Black experience in America?
What is my next step in my anti-racist journey? Where do I need to listen more closely?
What do I do with this disappointment in people I thought I knew and respected?
Will I ever write again in silence, without interruption?
Please tell me I’m not the only one with squirrels amped up on Red Bull living in my head. Is your mind loud these days, too?
Maybe this deep need for nature is related to the constant noise in my home that leaves me filled with both gratitude and frustration because I love these people, but can I please have ten minutes without interruption? Silence isn’t necessarily an invitation to tell me ALL THE THINGS.
Maybe it’s the quarantine life we’ve taken seriously since the Ides of March. The walls in our large, old home seem to shrink a bit more every day. Related, my kids are practically full-grown adults now. Their exponential growth could be related to the eleventy billion snacks they consume daily between breakfast and lunch. What is this nonsense? Is a hearty breakfast of eggs, fruit smoothies, and yogurt no longer sufficient to satisfy the palates of these tiny humans? Questions for God, I guess.
Maybe it’s the fatigue that always seems to tag along with sadness. I wish to be with my family who is 600 miles away. I haven’t seen my sister in 14 months and my brothers in eighteen. Two of my nephews graduated high school and my parents are weathering some serious health issues. I’ve missed being present for all of it.
In response to this deep need for quiet and time to process, I recently drove just ten minutes north to a remote park to pray, write, and hike. I longed for a space big enough to hold the heaviness.
As I hit the trail, without another soul in sight, the Spirit offered these words that I penned when I returned. I assure you, they hold no magic. Reading them won’t diminish the throbbing pain of our world. Speaking them won’t eliminate the pervasive injustices. Sometimes however, we need a quiet, dusty trail littered with pines to point us to the truth that in the midst of every sorrow, we are not alone, the deep work within and through us matters in this life and the next, hope is alive, and love will have the last word.
“You’re carrying burdens you were never meant to carry.
You know that’s not My way.
Would you release your need to hold the pain of the world?
Would you believe that I AM with you?
Would you believe that I AM for you?
See that tiny bird? I was there when it hatched.
I have not forgotten the needs of the sparrows, of this aching world I made.
I have not forgotten your needs.
I see you.
I see your dreams–I gave them to you.
I see your work–I made you for it.
I see your grief–I weep with you.
I AM present in the pain of injustice and in every loss.
Rest in My unfailing love and faithful presence.
Hope in the truth that I AM making all things new.
Do the hard work of justice.
Practice mercy.
Move forward in courage.
Pray for the oppressed (and the oppressors, too).
And remember always,
You are My beloved.”
ABOUT THE BLOGGER
In the midst of writing and maintaining the trifecta of marriage, home and community, Katie Carper is grateful for strong coffee, belly laughs, good books, and loyal friends. She and her husband of 17 years -- her co-warrior and confidant -- have four children. Two came to them through adoption and one has the gift of Down syndrome.
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