The Path of Becoming

John 1:14 (NIV)

"The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth."

The path winds through the forest, dark and shadowed, where roots twist like old memories and the light flickers—uncertain, a fragile flame. Here, in the deep silence of the trees, I search for meaning. I was told once, by a voice soft as dawn breaking over hills, that we are made in the image of God. Not in the steel of our strength or the glitter of our pride, but in the quiet dignity of our being, fragile and divine. A paradox, like the wind that bends the bough but never breaks it.

And so, I walk. The trees whisper their secrets, and the stream hums a hymn that feels older than time itself. They know of Him—the one who came not with thunder or sword, but with hands open, empty, ready to heal, and a heart vast enough to hold the world.

Christ, they say, was more than a man. But He was also no less. In His breath was the rhythm of life, the cadence of love, the pulse of compassion. He walked among us, not above us. He wept as we weep, laughed as we laugh, bore the weight of sorrow and the fleeting joy of things too precious to last. In Him, the divine met the human and did not flinch.

By the stream, I stop. Its waters are clear and cold, and in their trembling surface, I see my reflection—imperfect, fractured by the ripples. Is this not who we are? Images of the eternal, distorted by our own restless motion. And yet, the essence remains. To love, to forgive, to gather the broken pieces of the world and hold them tenderly, whispering, This, too, is sacred.

This is what He showed us. Not in grand sermons or proclamations, but in the way He touched the untouchable. The way He carried the weight of cruelty and betrayal and still called us His own.

I rise and walk again, the forest opening into a meadow where the sun spills like gold. I think of the world—its cities and wars, its hungry children, its lonely hearts. How often we forget. How often do we see each other as shadows, not as bearers of light.

Yet even in forgetting, the flame remains. It burns quietly, steadfastly. It is there, in the stranger’s smile, in the hand that reaches out, in the quiet moments when we choose love over fear.

Christ’s path was not an easy one. It led to the cross, to pain, to the breaking of His body. And yet, it did not end there. The path turned, rising like the dawn, and showed us that even in death, there is life.

And so, I walk, not alone, but with the echo of His steps guiding mine. The wind carries His song, and the earth remembers His touch.

We are all on this journey, all bearing the image, all called to love with a love that does not demand, but simply is. In the end, it is not the destination that matters, but the walking, the becoming. To see the divine in the fragile, the eternal in the fleeting. To hold the world as it is, and still believe it sacred. This is what it means to be human.

© R Gordon Zyne