Sometimes I walk a windswept beach. An orange ball dips. Golden light settles on the horizon. Sunset prize over, other beach walkers move back inside. I’m alone. I walk and let the dark shore cloak me. Peace pulls at my toes. Weary waves sing me home.
Sometimes I walk down 21 stairsteps to a mosaic hallway. I open double doors to trash-strewn streets. I usually hold a tiny hand on this walk. The tiny one makes the walk magical.
The toddler pulls my hand and scoots hopefully. The little one pauses to talk to pigeons. It doesn’t matter whether trash drifts in gutters.
My tiny friend and I only see wonder…never waste.
Sometimes I walk to my door and open it to simply…step out. This walk takes me to my welcome mat. I might just sit there and watch the sun wake up the grass.
Sometimes I walk around my house. If I see a car passing, I scramble to hide behind tree or shelter. I hide like a child playing a game.
My game is called solitude and safety. I only share my all-alone with Jesus .
Sometimes I walk an uneven brick walkway. I laid the bricks one-by-one a year ago to create order in my traumatized brain. The walkway leads into the beautiful overflowing garden.
Before I even began to rent, my kind landlord allowed me to create the garden. I hand carried the flowers in buckets from the home place I had to leave after my husband left me.
The garden is a healing place. This walk is part of recovery.
Sometimes I walk behind a little push mower. I savor the smell of cut grass. I look behind at my sheared grass and feel strong and in control.
It’s important to feel in control… at least in control of this tiny patch.
Sometimes I walk corn stubble of my beloved farmlands. One day geese waddled in the cornfield beside me – engaging me in squawking conversation.
Sometimes I walk from room to room in my house. I look at treasures I carefully arranged on bookshelves. God calmed me down as I placed these keepsakes from my old home.
When I walk my rooms I see fragile memories of children and home and love and family.
Sometimes I walk into my closet. (Isn’t that why they call it a walk-in?)
My walk-in closet is not for clothes. It’s for whimsy. I want to see what the toy mice are doing by the Christmas tree in the dollhouse.
I also find dolls and baby supplies and hopeful toys to take me back to simple times when the prerequisite to joy was simply play.
I’ve walked park trails with walking buddies. I’ve walked village roads where my only companion is careful observation.
It’s good to walk and observe. So much can be learned.
✅When you are experiencing tough times, please walk.
✅ You don’t have to walk far.
✅ You don’t have to walk in any certain direction.
✅ You don’t have to walk anywhere.
✅ Just walk.
✅ Walk with wonder.
✅ Walk with memories
✅ Walk with joy
✅ Walk with expectation.
And always
Always…
✅ Walk with Jesus.
Confessions of a Type A Woman 