Our path skirted the edge of a deciduous wood.  A variety of trees abounded, enveloping us in glorious shades of gold, yellow, orange, and red.  A breeze blew, more than gentle, but less than stiff.  It provided just enough chill to counteract the warm sunshine, making the day perfect for my favorite wardrobe combination, shorts and a sweatshirt.

As we walked, leaves blew from the trees with regularity.  Whenever they came close enough, I reached out in an attempt to grasp them, but they remained elusive.  I failed to grab a single one.

I said to my friend, “These leaves represent my search for spiritual knowledge.  So often I seem so close to grasping what it is I seek to learn, but at the last moment, it eludes me, leaving me just out of touch with the certainty I so desperately desire.”

He replied, “Today is the first day you have ever walked this path and tried to catch a falling leaf from one of these trees.  Keep trying, and as you gain experience, you will begin to succeed in grasping them.  The more experience you gain, the more leaves you will catch.”

Then he pointed out the many leaves that lay on the forest floor that had fallen from trees well away from the particular path we were walking and said, “But try as you might, you will only ever catch a fraction of the leaves that fall.  No one could ever catch them all.”

As he finished speaking, he caught a single golden leaf floating in his direction.  A mischievous smile even brighter than the autumn sun illuminated his face as he handed it to me.

We rounded a grassy hillock and came upon a man wading in the mud and muck alongside the road.  We paused and watched him struggle as he made very slow progress.  At each step, he reached down and pulled at the top of his knee high boots in order to free his leg and keep the boots from coming off.  The mud made a loud sucking sound each time he freed his foot from the mire.

My friend approached him and asked him “Where are you headed?”

The man replied, “I have been told that beyond this swamp there is a beautiful City that welcomes all good men.  In this City, everyone is treated with kindness, and there is no hunger, or thirst, or want of any kind.  I am sure that I will find it just around this next bend here.”

My friend then said to him, “Give me your hand and I will lift you from the mire, and you can walk along the road with us.”

At this, the man hesitated.  He looked bewildered, and he clearly did not understand what my friend was saying.

He answered thus:  “Sir, I do not wish to be rude, but I am in a hurry.  I must be on my way immediately if I am to reach my destination in time.”

He then put his head down, and reached for his boot top, and took another slow and tortuous step.

My friend again invited him, “Give me your hand so I can help you from the mire, and you can walk the road with us.”

But the man, intent on his trudging, did not hear my friend.  Once again he reached for his boot top, pulled his foot from the mud, and took another slow, agonizing step.

My friend, looking troubled, started down the road again, and I fell into step beside him.

As we walked He said to me, “Perhaps next time I pass this way, the man will hear Me and understand.”

As we walked through an area of hills and valleys, we came upon the ruins of a City sitting atop the very highest hill.  There was a ghost of a path leading up the slope to the ruins.  We turned away from the road and walked up the path.

As we wandered among the ruins my friend described to me the former splendor of the City.  He spoke of the great walls and towers that defended the City.  He told me of the beauty of a temple made from imported granite and the bustle of a busy marketplace filled with vendors calling out their wares.  He pointed out the location of the wealthy housing district in a standing grove of fruit trees, and he described the hovels of the poor that sat against the perimeter walls adjacent to the barracks where the City’s defenders slept.  Then we quenched our thirst amidst the ruins of a great fountain that was built above the spring that supplied the City with water.

Back outside the gate, my friend explained to me the disposition of the army of besiegers who destroyed the City.  He pointed out the location of the command tent.  Hundreds of campfires from the troops became visible as he described how the army would have looked at night to the residents of the City.  He spoke of battering rams, and siege towers, and the catapults that were used to reduce the once great walls to rubble.  All the details of the battle came clear as we looked out over the valley below the hilltop.

Finally he asked me to turn once again to the gate.  He described the scene after the battle, and I could envision oxen led carts filled with the wealth of the City emerging from the gate.  And even more disturbing, I saw the survivors of the City being led through the gate in chains, bound for slavery in the home country of the attackers.

And then he told me this:

“The City is a man.  And the attacking army is the same man.  Each act of sinfulness on the part of the man is like a catapult launched at the walls or a blow from the battering ram on the face of the gate.

The young man besieges himself with sin until his defenses are destroyed.

And then the devil enters the heart of the man unopposed, and he binds the man in slavery to sin, and he carries him off to do his bidding for all eternity.”

I asked in reply, “Is there no hope for the man to return from his exile and rebuild the City, and thus to free himself from the slavery of sin?”

And my friend answered, “There is always hope.  There is even great assistance available to the man to help him gain his freedom.  But before he is able to call on that assistance, he must recognize his circumstance.  All too often, the man never realizes or refuses to accept that he has been captured, so he never desires his freedom.”

And then my friend rose, and I followed him down the ghost of a path to the main road, and we continued on our journey.

An aisle ran down the center.  My friend sat three rows from the front on the right.  I settled in several rows behind him, on the left.

I had just begun my prayer routine when a door behind the altar opened, and two Sisters came out and began to clean the sanctuary.  They swept the floors, dusted the railings, and rearranged the setup of the altar in preparation for the next service.  The room was small, so it took them no more than half an hour to complete their tasks.

Although they were mostly quiet as they went about their work, I found that even their slightest noise would distract me.  I could not maintain my routine or concentrate on my prayer.  I ended up just gazing at my friend as He prayed, because He was not distracted at all.

When He was done, we moved to the back of the chapel, and I asked Him, “How do you maintain your concentration with all the movement of cleaning going on around you?”

He answered me,

“Every morning the angels clean the chapel in heaven.”

I said, “I wouldn’t have guessed that the chapel in heaven needed cleaning.”

He smiled and said, “It doesn’t, but the angels like to do it.”

Then he smiled a little broader and continued, “Think of it this way.  If you sat in heaven’s chapel, would you be distracted, or would you be enthralled and excited about the opportunity to watch the angel’s example as they intently and lovingly go about the simple business of serving God?”

He then led me out the door, and we continued on our way.

Our trail led right to the house. In the clearing beyond, there was a middle aged man practicing with a bow.

As we approached, my friend told me, “Every time I pass this house, I stop and give an archery lesson to this man.”

When we got closer, the man saw us, stopped his practicing, and waited for us to approach. My friend introduced me, but then they immediately became engrossed in a discussion about the finer points of archery.

As they talked, I noticed multiple targets arrayed at the edge of the field that still had arrows in them. I wandered over to inspect them.

The target farthest on the left had no arrows close to the bullseye. As I moved to my right, from target to target, the patterns of the arrows got progressively tighter, with a couple exceptions. They generally showed a clear indication of improving skill. The improvement was great at first, but became incrementally smaller and smaller as I moved down the line.

As I approached the end, my friend yelled across the clearing at me to beware, and the man began shooting at a fresh target. He shot nine arrows, the same number that was in each of the targets I had been inspecting. When he finished, he and my friend walked over to the target to inspect his performance.

The man picked the target up and positioned it at the end of the line. When he looked, he saw that the pattern was tighter than the last, and he broke out in a big smile.

My friend clapped him on the back. He then told me, “Each time I stop for a new lesson, we save the target, so we can measure the progress. He is getting better, but he still has some way to go. Perhaps by the time he is old and grey, he will hit the bullseye with every shot.”

We walked up to the house and shared a cool drink before continuing on our way.

The stones were wet and slippery.  If it were not low tide, they would not have been visible at all.  The water on the landward side continually ebbed and flowed, splashing strongly against the cliff at one moment, and washing back over the bridge at another.

My friend went first, and was leading the way across, when a small wave washed over my feet and I slipped into the pool.  I was quickly pushed to the center by the movement of the water.

My friend made it to the far end, so I attempted to swim there.  But for each stroke, the water pushed me back an equal amount.  My friend moved along the bridge, but no matter which direction I swam, the water worked continuously to keep me in the center of the pool.

Again I swam toward Him, but the water pushed me away.

He encouraged me, but the water pushed me away.

I redoubled my efforts, but the water pushed me away.

He lent me strength, but the water pushed me away.

I swim toward him now, but the water pushes me away.

I can see His eyes.  He loves me.  And the water pushes me away.

I am desperate to reach Him, and the water pushes me away.

He waits patiently and tirelessly, and the water pushes me away.

I am weary, and the water pushes me away.

He will never leave until I am safe, and the water pushes me away.

Somehow, no matter what, I will reach Him, and the water pushes me away.

At the end of the space, opposite Him, stood a small child of three or four years old.  The child turned his face up to my friend and smiled.  My friend squatted down and opened His arms in invitation.  The child immediately dashed forward as quickly as he could, and hugged my friend as hard as he could.

As I smiled at the sight, I felt a twinge of jealousy.  Despite the time I had spent on the road with my friend, it had never occurred to me that I might embrace Him.  I realized as I looked on that not only did I wish for an embrace, I was desperate for it.

He must have read my thoughts, because as He let the child go, He walked over to me and opened His arms.  I did not run to Him as the child did, but I did accept His offer, and I think I hugged Him just as hard as the child had.

Never in all my life was I so content.  Never in all my life did I feel so accepted and loved.  Never in all my life was I surer that I belonged.

It would have been fine with me if I had never moved again.

When we separated, He looked into my eyes, and I understood a hug (and all the love it contained) was available to me whenever I felt the need.

As the trip continued, I often took advantage of that understanding.

It was early winter, and we were sleeping in the open.  The fire had died down, and the cold was penetrating, so I rose in order to stoke the fire.

However, I found that the wood we had gathered was already spent.  The night was clear and the moon was full, so I left the camp to gather more.

After I had walked a distance, the wind began to rise.  Before I could make my way back, clouds blew in, blotting out the moonlight, and I could no longer see.

It began to snow and the wind rose further.  Soon I found myself surrounded by the chaos of a blizzard in the open at midnight.

I thought that I was surely lost.

But then my friend appeared next to me in the storm, and the warmth of his love shown about me.  The storm responded to him and began to abate.  As it receded, the grandeur of the creation surrounding me emerged and the night became still and calm.  I had the sense that I was seeing creation itself for the first time.

I looked into the eyes of my friend, and I was heartened to know that I fit within this creation.  I belonged to it and it belonged to me.  I was inspired to know that this creation was an act of love.  I might never understand that mystery completely, but as long as I always remembered that love wrought creation, I would never again be lost in the chaos I had just experienced.

My friend led me back to camp, where the fire was burning strong and bright and warm.  And I slept soundly and completely, covered by the blanket of the world.

I used to see Him rarely, but lately I see Him more and more often.

And now, when I see Him, he asks me to walk with Him.

I think maybe He always asked, but I never heard Him before.

At any rate, after I heard Him a couple times, I knew I needed to say yes to His offer.

The Vignettes are the chronicle of that walk.