
There was a time when I believed that walking was primarily about getting somewhere. Preferably quickly. With purpose. Possibly with a fitness tracker judging me from my wrist like a tiny digital Pharisee.
Then life, ministry, and a few stubborn joints suggested otherwise. As I’ve endured a very long recovery from the infection that has plagued me since returning from my walk along the Camino, I’ve had to learn some very new lessons about walking.
These days, many of my walks happen along the Humber River Trail. It is not a place that rewards haste. The path bends without apology. Tree roots rise up like small theological objections. The river itself moves at a pace that would never survive a performance review in modern society. And yet, it gets exactly where it needs to go.
Walking slowly, I have discovered, is not the absence of purpose. It is the presence of attention.
When I rush, I miss things. The flash of a cardinal in the underbrush. The quiet heroism of someone picking up litter with a grocery bag and a sense of civic righteousness. The sound of water moving over stones, preaching its one-sermon sermon: You don’t have to force this.
Faith, I am learning, behaves much the same way.
We often imagine faith as decisive, efficient, and brisk — preferably with clear milestones and measurable outcomes. But much of the life of faith looks suspiciously like a slow walk with no particular urgency and plenty of pauses. It looks like stopping to listen. Like circling back. Like admitting you don’t quite know where the path goes next, but trusting that it goes on.
The Humber River has taught me that progress is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply faithful movement — step by step, breath by breath — held within a larger grace that does not panic.
Pilgrims know this. Not the glossy brochure pilgrims with perfect backpacks and inspirational quotes, but the real ones. The ones who blister, backtrack, and occasionally stop for snacks that feel spiritually necessary. Pilgrimage is not about speed. It is about showing up, staying present, and letting the road do some of the teaching.
Walking slowly has also reminded me that God is rarely in a hurry. Scripture gives us burning bushes and parting seas, yes — but also long deserts, extended waits, and conversations that unfold over miles of road. God seems deeply committed to processes that take time, and strangely uninterested in our obsession with efficiency.
Along the Humber, I walk slower than I used to. I notice more. I pray less urgently and more honestly. I trust that if I keep walking — gently, attentively — I will arrive where I need to be, even if I can’t yet name it.
And if not, well… the river will still be there tomorrow, flowing patiently past all my very important plans.
A Prayer for the Slow Path
Gracious God,
You who walk with us at a human pace,
teach us to loosen our grip on urgency.
Slow our steps when we rush past grace,
and open our eyes to the holiness
hidden in ordinary paths.
When we are tempted to measure faith by speed or certainty,
remind us that love takes time,
and trust grows one step at a time.
Keep us faithful on the road,
attentive to your presence,
and content to walk with you —
slowly, honestly, and in hope.
Amen.








