I thought there might be no more hikes after my broken hip this winter. That fear ended when Jim and I wandered through daffodils beside the upper lodge at Blue Spruce Park.

Behold, the winter is past;
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
is heard in our land. (Song of Solomon 2:11-12, ESV)

We went looking for fiddleheads, baby ferns pushing through the soil, that look a bit like upside down quarter notes, but we were too early. Fiddleheads are tightly curled greenery resembling the fancy carved end of a violin. We saw many in New Zealand, where the fern is a national symbol.

I’m overcome by the simplest things, now. It’s one of the few benefits of living with cancer. This time it was moss-covered boulders, resembling sunning seals by a bay.

My eyes glistened at the spring greenness of the moss, begging to be touched. This world is too tender to ever want to leave.

Blue Spruce is popular for its daffodils that fill hollows and dance along creeks in April. We didn’t walk far. We didn’t have to, making it easier for me managing walking sticks on soft ground. A pale jonquil with orange lipstick and a saucy face flirted with me. Within a small radius were gatherings of lanky, bright yellow daffodils, reaching for the sun above the trees.

With Chewie, our goldendoodle, beside me, I sat on a bench. Jim stretched out, resting his head on my lap. A moment to memorize the lines on his beloved face and tuck away in a pocket to withdraw another day. I could have stayed hours watching tall, leafless hardwoods sway and bend high against the azure sky.

I was glad for my black rubber boots when I stepped across a spring rivulet; a temporary stream with mini waterfalls tumbling over rocks and twigs, headed toward the lake, below. The chiming water could have been a children’s bell choir gone wild, ringing crystal notes that called my name as certainly as Mother did at the end of day when it was time to come inside from play.

In the dry season, the run will entirely disappear, as if it had never existed. Its brevity condenses and intensifies the joy it gives right now.

Since we’re required to stay inside and safe distances from others when out, I wonder if our nature walk would be considered an “essential activity.” What else would you call it? The damp ground, warm breeze, flowing water and brilliant sunshine infused my soul with hope.

Several days ago I had an IV at the hospital. Our tramp in the woods was every bit as essential to my spiritual well-being as that IV drip was to my body. Wholeness comes through many channels, beginning with gratitude for the good earth and air to breathe another morning.

We escaped the bad news of the pandemic for a stitch of time by walking where Jesus would have loved to walk, in the beauty of nature. Beauty, like music and mathematics, are evidence of a divine Creator. I don’t know much about music or math but enough to doubt such incredible things are mere accidents. Even more mind boggling, it’s the spaces between the notes that make music magic, and not just clamor. Imagine then, how God uses the solitary spaces in our lives, when nothing seems to be happening, to hum songs into our souls.

Irishman Daniel Twohig wrote the hymn, “I walked today where Jesus walked.” A gentleman of my grandparents’ generation, he was born in the 1880’s. He must have felt Jesus was a country boy at heart. Jesus knew the paths and hills that surrounded his childhood home in Nazareth and went there to grow in spiritual strength and wisdom, gathered from the aching beauty of his Father’s creation in Galilee.

We take rural hikes to soak in a smidgen of that strength and wisdom. The songwriter’s words are equally true for anyone seeking God’s presence in the outdoor world:

I walked today where Jesus walked,

In days of long ago.

I wandered down each path He knew,

With reverent step and slow.

Those little lanes, they have not changed,

A sweet peace fills the air.

I walked today where Jesus walked,

And felt His presence there.

Look around and glimpse beauty sprouting, today. It’s everywhere, lifting our spirits to higher ground.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

(Fiddlehead pics by Tara; pic of Jim and me by Brett.)