Along the Way

There is a particular comfort in knowing you’re not lost.

Anyone who has spent time on a trail knows the moment. You’ve been walking awhile. The terrain shifts. The path narrows or seems to disappear altogether. You stop, heart ticking faster, scanning the ground and tree line for something familiar. The woods feel suddenly larger. Quieter. Your awareness sharpens not because something is wrong, but because everything seems uncertain.

And then you see it.

A cairn stacked carefully against the dimming sky. A painted blaze on a tree. A small wooden marker weathered by time and seasons. Simple signs, placed with intention by someone who has gone before you and wanted you to make it through safely, too.

They aren’t impressive. They don’t explain the whole journey or promise how long the hike will take. Nor do they tell you what’s waiting beyond the next bend. They simply say you’re still on the right way.

Cairns and trail markers aren’t destinations. They are direction.

That distinction matters more than we realize. We live in a world that wants clarity, certainty, and advance notice. We want maps. God, more often than not, gives us markers.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet and a light on my path” (Psalm 119:105)…

A lamp doesn’t flood the valley with light, rather, it illuminates the ground right in front of you. Enough to take the next step without tripping. Enough to keep moving without pretending you can see everything.

You know, there’s a line often attributed to Tolkien that people love to quote (myself, included): “Not all those who wander are lost.” It resonates so deeply because it names something true. Exploration isn’t the same as aimlessness. But wandering only works when there is still orientation. On a trail, wandering without markers isn’t romantic. It’s dangerous.

That’s why trails are marked. Sometimes boldly, with bright paint. Sometimes quietly, with stones gathered and stacked by hand. Sometimes with a simple signpost at a junction. The method changes but the purpose remains the same: to keep travelers aligned when the way forward isn’t obvious.

Scripture functions like that, as well. God doesn’t hand us a detailed map of our lives but He does give us trustworthy guidance rooted in His character.

“This is the way. Walk in it,” Scripture says, “whenever you turn to the right or to the left” (Isaiah 30:21).

Do you feel what’s there? That verse assumes hesitation. It assumes uncertainty. It assumes we’ll need correction mid-step. God’s guidance is not shouted from a summit; it’s spoken close enough to hear while walking. A whisper, sometimes.

Herman Melville once wrote, “It is not down in any map; true places never are.” The most formative terrain in life rarely comes with advance charts. Marriage. Parenting. Grief. Calling. Even faith itself. These are landscapes you learn by walking through them, guided not by full visibility but by faithful markers along the way.

That was certainly true for me the first time Jeff and I attempted a real wilderness adventure together.

Our first outing began with excitement that far exceeded our wisdom. A park ranger at Oak Mountain assured us the campsite was less than a mile up the trail. That sounded manageable. Even romantic. We pictured ourselves disappearing briefly into the woods for a quiet night under the stars.

We packed like amateurs.

Jansport school backpacks bulged at the seams. We hauled a massive six-person tent, a Rubbermaid tote, and a large Coleman cooler. Everything remotely “camping-related” came with us.

You guys, the trail was not less than a mile.

It was closer to three.

Rocky. Steep. Unrelenting.

By the time we reached the campsite, our bodies were already rebelling. Shoulders burned. Legs shook. My knee throbbed with every step. We were sore, humbled, and a little irritable. But we made camp anyway, collapsing under the weight of our own ambition.

That night, we roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over an open fire. Smoke clung to our clothes and my curly hair. The air cooled as darkness settled in, and stars appeared slowly, then all at once, scattered thick across the sky. From our ridge, the Pelham Valley stretched wide and quiet below us.

Exhaustion gave way to awe.

Morning came gently. Light crept over the hills. We cooked pancakes over the fire, the smell of batter and coffee mingling with pine and ash. For a moment, everything felt ordered and simple.

And then we remembered.

We had to carry everything back down.

The descent was worse than the climb. My injured knee protested with every step until I was hobbling, then laughing weakly at myself for packing like we were moving in instead of passing through. Jeff carried more than his share, steady and patient, while I limped behind him, pride and joint equally wounded.

When we finally reached the parking lot, we dropped our packs and sat in silence, sore and strangely grateful.

We learned a few things that day. Pack lightly. Enjoy the journey. of course.

But more so, that God is glorious and worthy of praise whether the trail is gentle or punishing, clearly marked or learned the hard way.

Most people don’t get lost all at once. They drift. One ignored nudge. One rationalized shortcut. One step off the path because it looked easier. That’s why trail markers often appear more frequently in difficult stretches. The harder the terrain, the more visible the guidance.

God’s direction often works the same way.

A verse remembered before a hard conversation. A pause before reacting. A conviction to wait when rushing feels wise. A reminder of God’s character when fear begins narrating the future. These are not dramatic moments, they’re faithful ones. Small markers that prevent large missteps.

Turn to Proverbs 3 and read versus 5 + 6 with me…

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding; in all your ways know him, and he will make your paths straight”.

Notice that it doesn’t say the LORD will make our straight paths easy ones? Straight paths mean true ones.

One of the quiet comforts of cairns and trail markers alike is knowing you are not the first one here. Someone else has walked this stretch. Someone else has navigated the uncertainty and left evidence that the way forward exists.

Scripture tells us the same about God. He goes before us. He walks with us. He remains faithful behind us. Guidance is not impersonal instruction; it is relational presence.

God does not promise to show us the whole route. He promises to guide us along the way.

Step by step.

Stone by stone.

Light enough for today.

And that is enough.

There’s something about that simple sign — two small figures moving in the same direction — that feels quietly profound after twenty-three years of marriage.

The Appalachian Trail stretches more than 2,000 miles from Georgia to Maine. Long before it was formally completed in 1937, its ridgelines were used by indigenous peoples, traders, and settlers. The path itself isn’t new. What’s new is the marking — the white blazes placed deliberately along trees, rocks, and crossings so modern hikers can stay aligned with a route carved long before them.

That’s what marriage has felt like for us.

We didn’t invent the trail. We stepped onto one worn by generations before us… covenant, faithfulness, forgiveness, shared labor, shared joy. Scripture doesn’t describe marriage as standing still. It describes walking:

“Can two walk together without agreeing on the direction?” (Amos 3:3).

Walking requires pace adjustment. It requires waiting when the other is tired. It requires humility when one of you misreads the turn. And sometimes it means carrying more weight for a season because your partner simply cannot.

After twenty-three years, I know this: the goal isn’t speed. It’s staying on the trail together.

The Appalachian Trail is marked every few hundred feet in difficult stretches. The harder the terrain, the more frequent the blazes. Marriage has been that way, too. In seasons of ease, we’ve walked almost without thinking. In seasons of strain, the markers mattered more — prayer, repentance, choosing gentleness over pride, remembering why we started.

We didn’t lay the blazes.

God did.

He marked the path long before we ever stepped onto it. Covenant. Sacrifice. Perseverance. Love that keeps no record of wrongs. Guidance that doesn’t show the summit but always gives light enough for the next step.

Two figures. One direction.

Still walking.