The Magical Family Walk
If you remember one thing, my children, remember this.
Dinner was ready on time and no one was melting down, so after we ate I announced with hope in my eyes, “I’d like to go for a walk.”
My ten-year-old daughter said, “A walk? I’ll come!” with an excited bounce, so we gathered her two younger brothers (a process which took approximately seventeen minutes) and headed out.
Never mind that she was wearing her pajamas because she played in the rain earlier and didn’t want to dirty another outfit. Never mind that one brother’s shirt was backward and the other brother wasn’t wearing shoes (he doesn’t know how to walk yet anyway). Never mind my sweatpants and unmakeupped face. Never mind that my daughter predicted more rain.
Never mind the debilitating anxiety that prevents us from all going together, anywhere, ever.
Four out of six is better than none. So off we went.
My five-year-old generally has three speeds when we walk: sprint, slow-as-snails, and unhelpful stroller-pushing. When he chooses the latter my role becomes One-Handed Steering Assistant in a futile attempt to keep the stroller from going catawampus all over the sidewalk.
My daughter, as per usual, enacted her flower-picking-jumping-throwing ritual: pick a clover or dandelion from the grass, run a few steps, then jump, throw the flower up, and keep running. Stop and repeat. I don’t know why she does this, but it is a ritual of pure joy and a giggle bubbles up in me every time I see it.
You can imagine what our ragtag crew looked like walking up Main Street.
We cut through the Walgreens parking lot and made our way south through downtown. We stopped in a small park filled with leggy roses, past-their-prime peonies, and hedges being overtaken by cleavers. I stroked lamb’s ears with my curious son and my daughter poured over the map of local historic churches. They took turns pressing the crosswalk buttons and looked in every storefront window. We saw the bridge over the Erie canal ascend though there was no boat in sight. We caught snails (they are pretty easy to catch), and then hurried home happily as the rain my daughter predicted dumped on us.
When I was a young girl, we went for walks at night — my mom, dad, brother, and I. Sometimes we explored the walkways that went under the train station, where we would listen to our voices echo and my dad would try to walk up the walls. Sometimes we walked around the college campus near our home. We meandered the pathways between buildings (they were giants to me), sauntered up and down the stairs and ramps, and climbed any structure that could be climbed. Once my dad slid down a banister so fast that one of his shoes went flying and a campus security officer scolded him: “This is not a playground!” It was to us, though.
My parents faced innumerable challenges during the years of those walks. Health problems, medical debt, multiple jobs with long hours, a failed business, upheaval at church, broken relationships.
I don’t remember much of that. What I remember, mostly, is those magical walks. I remember us together — laughing, exploring, playing. I remember feeling safe, feeling free, feeling light.
Today, my own family is in the midst of the most difficult season we’ve known together. Though the challenges we face seem to shape every moment of every day, I pray that this is what my kids will remember: throwing flowers, peeking in storefront windows, catching snails, laughing and running through the rain.
I’d like to go for a walk. Who’s with me?