The Sacred Stops

Every morning, Winston and I wander.  

My feet are forward; his nose is down.  

I call it walking, but it’s not.  

It’s more like pausing, then pausing again.  

He finds every crack a universe unfolding.  

Every tree a novel yet unwritten.  

Every breeze whispers secrets I can’t hear.  

I tug the leash, eager for progress.  

But he lingers, faithful to each moment.  

And I wonder how often I miss them—  

The sacred stops, the holy interruptions.  

The places where God might be waiting.  

I pull him forward, impatient to keep going.  

He resists, patient to savor staying still.  

Walking Winston is not about moving.  

It is about learning to listen deeply.