The faith journey

Esther kept the travel invitation beneath her hymnbook.

Her daughter found it there on Sunday.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It was only an idea.”

“Whose?”

Esther smiled.

“Mine.”

She had listened to other people's journeys for years: photographs passed around after services, stories told over tea.

She was good at being pleased for them.

When the small group began planning, she asked about the walking. Then the pace. Then whether asking these questions would make her a nuisance.

Their coordinator, Ruth, took out a notebook.

“They make you someone we can plan with.”

They reviewed the route with their local guide, confirmed places to rest and discussed which visits were optional. Esther chose what suited her rather than agreeing to every stop.

Before leaving, she copied one line from a familiar hymn onto a small card.

Her daughter slipped a better pair of walking socks into her bag.

“Practical devotion,” she said.

On the journey, a morning visit ran longer than expected.

Esther sat in a shaded courtyard while some of the group continued with the guide. She had worried that resting would mean missing the important part.

Now she could hear a bell, footsteps and two people speaking softly nearby.

There was no grand revelation waiting for her.

Only a place she had imagined for years, existing around her while she sat still.

She took the card from her bag.

The words looked different here.

When Ruth returned, she asked whether Esther wanted to rejoin them.

“In a moment.”

Back home, someone asked which photograph was her favorite.

Esther showed them the courtyard.

It was almost empty.

“You came all that way for this?”

She looked at the strip of shade beside the stones.

“I came all that way,” she said, “and finally gave myself a moment.”

The invitation no longer lived beneath the hymnbook.

The little card did.