Whether I’m sad, mad or delirious with joy, I walk. Whether it’s sunny and warm or Oregon-gray and raining, I walk. Walking channels emotions and helps me remember to bring my neediness to God. Walking as prayer has almost certainly kept me from saying or doing things I’d regret later. And when the situation requires, walking helps me cry out with groanings too deep for words.
To be honest, I blame it all on the twins. I started walking my Oregon neighborhood as a way to get back in shape after delivering surprise twins had left me softer and rounder than my five-foot two-inch frame needed to be. But as desperate as I was to rebuild muscle tone and carve out a few minutes away from the screaming priorities of children, I discovered something awesome: Jesus likes to walk too.
As I skirted puddles and strode through the occasional downpour, Jesus didn’t mind showing up. As I pray-walked my way through the twins’ Preemie Problems and my other two sons’ Big Brother Beefs and Bellyaches, Jesus walked by my side.
On days when I was lucky enough to go out alone, I power-stepped my way up and down the hills of west Eugene, breathing in Pacific Northwest beauty and breathing out a paean of silent praise to the Maker. Each step became my petition for wisdom, strength and please Lord just let them all sleep at the same time. In those days, my walks were mostly opportunities to sob to Jesus about my life. Twins, Lord? Seriously?
Because of my paralyzed left arm from childhood polio, I couldn’t lift up both arms to praise God in prayer or lift up both babies, for that matter. But since God seemed to be OK with my creativity as a mom (I’d figured out hacks to feed them simultaneously, for example), He’d be OK with adaptive prayer-warrioring too.
Two or three years later, I was finally sleeping regularly and still walking whenever I could. As a professional-grade daydreamer, I had no trouble imagining a two-way conversation between God and me. I used all my senses to stay in the present moment, drinking in the environment and admiring my surroundings.
Western Oregon is an easy place to admire, even if it is pretty rainy. Coming from the desert of Arizona, I still marvel at the lush greenness of this place and its plants and animals. I saw my first raccoon here, and actually stood next to hummingbirds as they zipped about a butterfly bush. One evening, I discovered a tiny green tree frog on my raspberry bushes, his loud croak belying his finger-length size.
Those who know me best would probably tell you to watch out for my prayer-snarking too. Yes, I can be funny and sarcastic, and I often try to get those two things into the same sentence. But as much as I like to complain to God in a sort-of stand-up way, I also use walking to do prayer with reverence and awe.
Get Out
To some, walking may seem like a chore or even an impossibility. But getting outside where you’re up close and personal with God’s awe-inspiring creation could be a start. Whether you grab a cane, a walker or a wheelchair, find a way to be out of doors for a little while. If you can’t walk, sit and inhale, exhale while you mindfully thank the Lord for fresh air. Let your eyes search out the beauty around you—whether it’s a tree or a bush or somebody’s flower garden.
And if you can walk, practice the presence of God with every step. As you walk, let a single word or phrase be top of mind. Praise and worship can be as simple as a smile. Imagine all your burdens slipping away as Jesus walks with you. And if life overwhelms you, don’t worry. God promises to carry you through whatever trial or trib or crummy thing you’re dealing with today. Isaiah 46:4 says in part, “I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” When prayer seems too hard for words, let yourself feel cradled in Jesus’ arms like a little lamb. You might not be delivered out of your trouble, but he will always carry you through it.
Long ago, I walked a seaside neighborhood in East San Diego early in the morning before the fog burned off. I was attending a weekend spiritual retreat and the rule was no talking while out alone on the walk. But I was as lonely that morning as I’d ever been, a new divorcee with a small apartment I’d sublet back in Phoenix. Would I always be the spinster art teacher, destined to drag my heart behind me while I scribbled with elementary schoolchildren? The cool mist swirled around me as I climbed one hilly street after another. I frantically searched the gray sky for a sign to tell me I was not doomed.
I didn’t know if the retreat leaders allowed cry-walking, but I blubbered up and down the steep East San Diego sidewalks. God was too far away, but I begged for comfort anyway. On one street, I narrowly missed twisting my ankle on a curb. A few feet later, I stepped around a corner, careful to avoid the ivy spilling out onto the concrete.
I looked up and there it was: God had left me a love note.
A whole row of hydrangea bushes, each weighted with giant blue, pink or white flower heads, stood guarding a front-yard garden. Hydrangeas don’t grow in Phoenix—I’d never seen one. Under the mopheads and lace caps, a symphony of summer blooms—zinnias and cosmos and marigolds all shouted for my attention.
My breath caught and I stopped short. Here was love on display, beautiful and terrible, lovely and dangerous. As the fog lifted, I was sure God had put those flowers there just for me. My heart threatened to float away, and for good measure God sent a gleam of sunshine, hovering over the scene. I hovered there as long as I dared.
I started back to where I’d begun, but not before I’d admitted an important lesson. To get from desolation to possibility, I’d had to walk. Before I could project myself into a future I dreaded, I had to appreciate what was right in front of me, to be present for the present. The love note God set out for me wasn’t available unless I took a step in God’s direction. I returned from the lonely walk with gratitude all over my face.
Since then, I’m not exactly walking on water, but I’ve come to love doing prayer by walking—it keeps me thankful. But I’ve also had to be honest about my pain, my fears, my inadequacy, my inertia. Walking prayers must be done with your eyes and your heart open. I think God wants us to walk with Him even if you feel the need to talk or be silent or to cry your eyes out. In this way, a walk becomes a sacred endeavor, as holy as anything you’ve ever done.
This really, really resonates with me. Being out in nature, or on really icky weather days, just sitting quietly in a chair and watching outside is where I find the most connection with the holy and my thoughts become conversations with God. Thank you for sharing.