Inhaling deeply, I searched for the vines that surely grew nearby.
Ah, yes. Ahead on the left, white honeysuckle blossoms greeted me. I passed the vines, still inhaling the distinct aroma and revising the song TV cowboy Roy Rogers sang decades ago. Rogers crooned, “Happy trails to you.” I sang, “Honeysuckle trails to you.”
My honeysuckle trail stretched ahead, an unpaved four-wheeler path bordering three small lakes. That day, the path proved challenging. Recent rains had left the wheel tracks muddy, the center and sides needing mowing.
As my feet sought the best spots to tread, my spirit heard God - singing lyrics from Song of Songs 2:13: “the blossoming vines spread their fragrance. Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me.”
Past the third lake, I would step over a low gate. A few yards past the gate, I'd break out into a large, rolling field where the four-wheeler path gives way to a blacktopped walking trail. A fresh wave of honeysuckle aroma washed over me as I approached the gate. Walls of honeysuckle blossoms bordered both sides of the trail just beyond the gate.
Ah . . .
CRACK! A blast like the report of a rifle shattered my reverie. The source of the sound lay ahead – and close. “Surely someone wouldn't shoot across a trail where neighborhood children play,” I thought.
Unconvinced, I almost turned around. Instead, strangely encouraged by the fragrant vines ahead, I stepped over the gate. Treading between honeysuckle walls, I stopped humming and started speaking. “Someone's walking the trail,” I announced. “Someone's walking here.”
Tentatively, I stepped past the place where the flowering vines stopped. Looking to my right, where the sound had originated, I saw the backyard of a neighborhood home. Several men stood there. All looked sheepishly at me.
“What were you boys doing?” I wanted to ask.
Relieved, I stepped onto the blacktopped trail that takes an oval course around the field's perimeter. Topping a small rise, I saw three dogs ahead, playing at the back fence of another yard. I hadn't encountered dogs on the trail before.
The brown boxer and the white terrier spotted me at the same time I spotted them. “Aha!” their faces said.
As the two raced toward me, I slowed my pace, yet kept walking forward. Surely the owner would appear and call the dogs back. I scanned the yard from whence the trio had emerged. Not a person in sight.
The longer-legged boxer outran the terrier. The third dog, a chocolate lab, hesitated momentarily, then joined the race. The boxer reached me first. As I slowed almost to a stop, he jumped up repeatedly, front paws to my chest. The terrier nipped at my heels. The lab galumphed around us.
At last, the trio tired of me and raced back to their yard. I completed the oval trail, stepped back onto the four-wheeler path, trekked past the honeysuckle walls, stepped over the gate, skirted the three lakes and exited the trail, still inhaling honeysuckle scent.
The mud, the gunshot, the dog attack – all conspired to stop me from completing that walk and, even more, from enjoying it. Yet, complete it, I did. Enjoy it, I did.
“Love never gives up,” says 1 Corinthians 13, The Message. It “takes pleasure in the flowering of truth, puts up with anything, trusts God always, . . . never looks back, but keeps going to the end.”
Beloved of God, honeysuckle trails to you.
. . . . . . .
1 Corinthians 13:4,6-7 MSG
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