My Missouri kids: running around catching snowflakes with every chance flurry that comes our way. They have not spent months trudging through snow drifts. They have not cleared the driveway enough times that there is nowhere left for the snow to be piled. They have not walked a thousand winter nights to a train station in the bitter cold. To them, snow is just fun.
I remember walking through the snowdrifts in the imprints of my dad’s boot- my little shoe fitting easily into the hollow left by his stride. To get the mail or take out the trash, I wouldn’t bother to put on my boots. Instead, I would don slip-ons and hop from one set of footprints to another until I had reached my destination. Sometimes this was quite the adventure as I had to stick to previously trodden paths and the circuitous route ended up being more time-consuming than just putting on snow boots. More time consuming, but also more adventurous.
There isn’t usually enough snow where we live for my kids to experience this (although every few years we get a decent winter with multiple snowfalls), but the metaphor remains. We follow in the footsteps of our father until we can fill his shoes, and then we make footprints in which our own children can walk until they are old enough to forge their own path. I am in one of those sweet spots in life where I have my parents and my children with me. The kids anchor me to a childhood three decades in my past and my parents anchor me to a future yet to be written, also three decades distant. And here I stand, perched on this tightrope that provides a unique perspective on life.
Three short decades separating me from the joys of childhood and from the glory of old age. One is left behind forever, yet still vivid in my memory; the other is unwritten in deed, but the destination is etched indelibly.
In many ways I have followed in my father’s footsteps. Most notably, his God is my God, and this has shaped my life more than anything. But there are other similarities. We are peripatetics-more pedestrian than adventurers (although I do enjoy a good hike as well). I think on my feet, and I’m sure my neighbors wonder at my strange habits of pacing up and down the street. Sometimes I take one of the dogs with me just to look like I have a purpose. The real purpose is hidden. The pavement is my canvas for sermon writing and blog posts, among many other functions like stress relief, problem solving, and prayer.
My teenage years consisted of much walking. Walking to the train station. Walking from the train station to work. Walking from work back to a train station. You get the idea. But it was more than just necessity. I walked by choice as well. Mondays were always a good walking day. After a full day of school followed by basketball practice, I would walk to get dinner, then walk back for Monday night basketball (a community event that I had been going to for years prior to playing for the school). It would end at nine and my dad would ask me if I wanted to ride home with him. Many times, I would choose to walk the 45 minutes home instead, sometimes with friends and sometimes by myself.
I honestly can’t remember if I used to be more energetic or if a constant exhaustion was just manageable for my teenage self. But as I lay watching the snow flurries the other night after everyone had gone to bed, the road called to me to contemplate this new phase of life in the cold while wandering through a haphazard veil of snowflakes falling lazily.
I don’t know what my adolescent years would have been like without the walking. Without the chance for my thoughts to unravel as my body went into a sort of auto-pilot and freed my mind to meditate on the events swirling around me. I remember the moment I chose to live a life of sobriety, despite the tempting promise of a liquid-based emotional anesthetic. I remember the startling discovery that I was only attracted to girls that I respected. I discovered much about myself while walking. A frequently disappointing discovery, and so different than the way I was perceived by others. I discovered what others were like while walking, turning over conversations and behavior in my mind until they revealed their meaning. And even after discovering what others were like, I found that I liked them, and wanted to be liked by them. I discovered so many strange things without leaving the sidewalk.
How do kids think today? Do they think? How can minds be freed while brains are constantly stimulated by screens and soundtracks? Am I pessimistic to think that wisdom is not being heeded and virtues are not being developed because of the meaningless noise drowning out all thought? Maybe that’s just the sign of my age.
When my children follow in my footprints, they will see a clear path. It will appear to them that I walked a straight line. What they won’t see is that behind every footprint are a thousand steps where thoughts were clarified, priorities arranged, sacrifices made, values established, wisdom sought, humility accepted, Revelation received, and meaning mediated upon. It was not natural (or easy) to follow in the steps of my father. I thank God that He made me to walk. Otherwise my children might be following footsteps in the wrong direction.
Nathan Writes 