When the Walk That Whispered, Ran

What began as a quiet walk became a glimpse of God’s Kingdom come on earth, where reverence, rest, and revelation met in community.

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I’ve long loved walking in the woods. It’s where I go to pray, to listen, to breathe. Nature helps steady my nervous system and ground my spirit. So when my church—committed to nurturing body, mind, and spirit as sacred reflections of the Divine—planned an intentional, restorative nature walk (known as forest bathing), my heart stirred for what God might reveal.

I’d spent the prior week walking unfamiliar trails, displaced from my usual neighborhood but drawn closer to God with each step. On those paths, I followed birdsong, even trailed a turtle, learning to abide in mystery and motion.

As we set out with our guide, Whitney of Sunday Grounding, I lingered near the rear of our beautifully varied group—different ages, backgrounds, and reasons for showing up, but all seeking something sacred in the tranquility. From there, I witnessed us—moving slowly, in reverent hush, not rushing to reach a destination but simply being. It reminded me of Genesis—God’s Spirit hovering over the chaos then, forming fellowship now. It called to mind those who followed the cloud by day and fire by night—not merely journeying, but participating in a holy unfolding.

In the weeks leading up to the forest bath, the ground beneath me felt like it was shifting. The kind of quaking you know will alter the landscape forever. This wasn’t the first time the ground had shifted beneath me. Like earlier seasons, life since my diagnosis with a progressively disabling disease a few years ago has carried me through cycles of disruption and reorientation. I’ve repeatedly revisited terrain that was familiar, but never quite the same, as if each quaking revealed a deeper layer. 

One such tremor reverberated during our sacred forest walk. I blinked and suddenly realized the park before me was near the very neighborhood where I'd once started over, more than a decade ago. It was close to the place where I’d grieved my father in solitude, made a home after divorce, and clung to sanctuary until displacement returned—once again beyond my control. 

That quaking left me staggering toward any community I could find, grasping for people and places that felt like home—last-ditch attempts to earnestly control what felt too uncertain to bear alone. In that desperate longing, I made choices that echoed connection, but couldn’t hold me—and I didn’t have the capacity to hold them, either. In trying to evade a future of loneliness, I found myself feeling more alone than ever.

I hadn’t expected to return to that area or those memories that day, much less to be met there by stillness and movement, beauty and belonging—all at once. Yet there I was, companioned. The involuntary solitude that once marked this ground, within and without, had given way to something communal, tender, and whole. My body, once marked by loss in that space, now felt safe enough to move, even run. The sanctuary I once entered alone had become shared ground—its contours unchanged, yet everything within me transformed. Not because I overcame, but because God met me again, differently… and stayed. In His presence, I gradually found freedom again. 

As I quietly observed our group, we seemed like a moving liturgy of freedom, collectively untethering from what held us back and led us to hesitation, yet also anchoring to the One who called us back to the garden we were made to inhabit and share in His joy. We were free. Free to wonder, to wander, to climb rocks and walk logs like balance beams. 

As our guide reflected before we parted: like trees, we’re invited to take the space we need—to root deep and reach wide. Contemplating this, it seemed the stillness between us had made space for the Spirit to move collectively within and among us.

Elohim's hand was at work—not just above us, but etched into the curves of the trail beneath our feet. Ruach stirred in the rustle of leaves and the hush of the creek, reminding us we were creatures among creatures. The breath of God itself moved through the land, enfolding us into the rhythm of all living things.

At one point, the trail opened wide. I remembered a word I’d received in prayer nearly a year prior: the Holy Spirit saw me running forward, free and unbound. Now the Spirit whispered—it was time.

So I ran. And I haven't stopped.

Not away—but toward what God had already prepared. Toward His Kingdom, coming boldly and tenderly, step by step, on earth as it is in heaven—through us and all around us.