I grew up on a dairy and row crop farm in southern Kentucky. Among the privileges of that raising was the meandering joy of the cattle paths. I used to wonder what our pastures would look like from the sky with those rambling dirt paths made by the Jerseys veining across the green of fescue. In the summer, I would run along the path, arms held out in the imagination of flying or of riding a motorcycle, feet pounding against the dust raising little puffs with each step. Back then, I could run fast and far. Probably at least half the distance as I remember it now, colored by the years and caressed by the rehearsals. Even in the selectively enhanced memory of middle age, there was at least thing about the main path that remains unfazed; you could not tell from either end or the middle where the path would lead you.

Standing under the shade of the hickory trees at the old spring down behind the tobacco barn, it was impossible to see where the path would end up. At first, it seemed only to lead away from the creek. Then, as you walked it, it seemed that the destination was the pasture. Only when you followed it long enough to clear the trees fringing the old cemetery at the north side of the field could you see that the path led to the barn, a half-mile away from the creek.

When we learn the ways of God and walk in his paths, we do not have to see the destination to know that the path is worth taking.

H. Arnett
10/6/09