A Slower Pace
March 2, 2021
My Appachan (grandfather) can walk faster than anyone I know. He’s a little over 90 now, so he’s slowed down a bit; but I still think he’s faster than me. A little over three years ago, our family visited him and my Ammachi (grandmother) in their hometown of Ranni which is near the southwest tip of India. Each day, my Appachan would walk a couple miles to get milk. While we stayed with him, we were able to accompany him on his walk. We trailed behind him (like I said, he walks fast) and trekked on dusty roads and up rocky hills, past banana trees and leafy palms and circled through his roundabout neighborhood. He would mumble to himself, praying or singing each step of the way, stopping mid-sentence every now and then to point out an important landmark or to say hi to a passerby. When I was younger, I would watch my Appachan put on his jacket, blue beanie (and sometimes his Detroit Lions umbrella) to walk in our neighborhood here in Michigan, sun or snow, always praying and singing while he walked. We grew up in a forest filled area, and I wonder if it reminded him of home.
During the pandemic, I started walking around our neighborhood. We also have a couple forest filled trails near our house which reminds me of home. Walking wasn’t something I normally did. I didn’t mind it, but it wasn’t my go to activity of choice. It always felt slow. But as I began to make walking a daily practice I thought of my Appachan more.
A few days ago as I was getting ready to go outside, I was shuffling through my phone to find a playlist or podcast to listen to. I thought to myself, this is the perfect time to be productive and learn something new or hear an inspiring message or get a word from God through a song. I half-heartedly chose something because I was tired of looking and started on my walk. A couple minutes in, I felt a tug in my heart to take out my headphones and just be.
I shut off my phone, placed my headphones in my pocket and continued on my walk. While the bright sun had melted most of the snow off the sidewalks, I noticed a trail I usually walk on in the summer still buried by blankets of ice and snow. I felt a nudge again, this time to trek through the snow-covered trail. Not many people walk that way during this time of year, so there were few footprints to follow in. Still, I felt God pressing me to walk slow and head in that direction. I walked through and reached a point in the trail where the sun poured through the trees. The heat had melted the snow completely, leaving the sidewalk dry. Because few people walk in that area now, a gentle stillness filled the space. Above me, dozens and dozens of birds softly fluttered through the branches. It was beautiful. The sun, the breeze, the birds and the songs they sang. It felt like this perfect moment of peace.
If the pandemic taught me anything it’s that doing life at breakneck speed was not working. We needed a pause to reevaluate what mattered. My goal this year was to maintain that slow and steady pace I found in the early months of last year and resist my need to rush. But, as things begin to return to normal, I feel myself inch toward an inclination for busyness again. I can be so focused on always needing to fill every second with something that feels purposeful, I forget that rest and stillness have their own purpose too.
I was reminded of my Appachan again as I stood in the middle of the trail letting the sun warm my face. I now understand more why he chooses to walk each day.
It’s a chance to connect with our Creator in the midst of His creation. It’s a chance to see His intentionality at work. It’s a chance to understand our smallness in the artistry of His immensity.
So often I forget that stillness can be good.
I forget that creation tells of who God is if I’m willing to listen.
I forget that God cares for sparrows and squirrels.
I forget that He cares for what He creates.
God is always speaking and if we quiet our hearts enough to listen, we’ll hear His songs of joy over us, calling us deeper and deeper into a slower pace with Him.
