Just Go

By Donna Poole

“Just go for a walk.”

How many times has John said that to me when my brain tangled around a writing assignment or my heart knotted with the pain of a friend?

The rhythm of a singular walk on a country road isn’t a panacea, a cure-all, but it sure is a great detangler.

Not all roads detangle thoughts. I walked in New York City once with our Maine-Endwell High School Band. We visited the 1964 World’s Fair, and we walked downtown. I remember the exhilaration and shock I felt when the light changed and the massive crowd moved as one to the other side of the street. There was no room for individuality at that point. Turning back would have been impossible. The crowd carried me forward whether I wanted to go or not. I loved visiting the big city but knew even then that the rhythm of small town and country would always call me home.

At home, I listen to the rhythm of my steps on gravel and hear what the seasons say. The winds erase extraneous thoughts, and my mind clears enough to try to think God’s thoughts after Him. I may be singular on my walk, but I’m not lonely.

God and I were almost to the bridge where the St. Joe River, looking more like a meandering creek, passes under the gravel road. It was a quiet day; I saw no neighbors, and no tractors hummed in the fields. Started, I heard footsteps pounding behind me.

I whirled around. A young deer was running right at me. Deer don’t run toward people; they run in the other direction. She looked into my eyes. I held out my hand, and she nuzzled it. Would she let me touch her? I barely breathed. She wasn’t as soft as I thought.

We talked without words for awhile. I told her this is how it will be someday. She won’t have to fear anything then, and neither will I, because God promises nothing will hurt or destroy in all His holy mountain. We told each other we can’t wait for that day, when death and her sickly children of sorrow and suffering are forever banished, and our God makes all things new.

For now, sorrow and suffering are still with us, as is death, the defeated enemy, but the enemy just the same. We said goodbye this week to a friend of forty-five years.

“Just go, Anna May,” we told her. “It’s okay. We’ll be coming along soon.”

Anna May left behind these gravel roads she dearly loved to walk when she was younger, and she went Home. I hope she finds some gravel byways up there with some wildflowers and a deer that walks right up to her, and I hope she waits for me there. Because I don’t imagine Anna May will like streets of gold any better than I will.

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