Learning to Walk

My daughter is a walker. It took her a little while, right up to the year and a half "start-worrying-says-the-doctor" deadline. It's been a fun process, letting her little hands grasp my pointer finger as she, with escalating confidence, moves her chubby little legs across the living room floor. She's naturally cautious, but she's recently realized the utility of staying on two legs, and loves the opportunity to take off down the street or explore the garden with her Oma (credit where credit is due: my father-in-law bought her some shoes that, unlike her other shoes, were clearly made for walkin').

Do you know of anyone who remembers learning to walk in their childhood? I know I don't, and I doubt my daughter will either. But these small steps for baby will grow in to adult steps that will carry her a world over. This is a cause for thankfulness, as Chesterton famously pointed out when he wrote: "As children, we were grateful for those who filled our stockings at Christmastime. Why not be grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs." Worth thinking for any of us who can easily tackle a staircase or hike a trail through the forest. Working limbs for the glory of God.

My daughter won't remember the lesson, yet she'll remember to walk. God designed her legs for this purpose and, Lord willing, these legs will carry her well through the years. This could serve as a bit of encouragement for anyone finding him- or herself in the position of teaching, among them pastors and parents. It's almost a running joke among Christians, where, week after week God's word is preached to us. I often find myself thinking, "wonderful sermon last week! I felt so invigorated as I sat in the pews! Now, what did he talk about again?"

Sometimes, perhaps even often, we remember those moments where a seed, faithfully thrown, hits our hearts and begin to take root, causing positive change and enlightened understanding, even when we're quite young. But as I've been writing (and indeed reading) more, I've become aware of an unaccounted for inventory of knowledge, particularly spiritual knowledge. I'll read about a concept (this week it's been Christ-like service as espoused in Philippians 2-3, which is as beautiful to think about as it is difficult to apply) that will awaken dormant thoughts and teachings, waiting in my mind to be breathed upon. Where did I learn them? A sermon? A conversation with my father? A book? A blog post? A song my mother sang to me as a baby? Some combination of the previously mentioned?

Sometimes, I'll remember; sometimes I won't. I like to remember. I like to remember who to thank, who was important to my journey. But the point is that I remember, and that I put it into practice, that I don't forget my face the moment I walk away from the mirror. That's why I think that, even when we can't immediately regurgitate the relevant facts like Will Hunting, even when we've forgotten last week's sermon or a proverb from our granddad, there's still hope. We're laying down the bricks in a house we can't understand. We're adding seasoning to the mix of every soul. We're teaching each other to walk, tentative step by tentative step until we learn to walk to new heights. Something worth remembering, even if you never remember having read it here.