Litany for a Walk Too Easily Missed

A prayer for one who almost didn’t notice

I went walking yesterday, mostly because I felt like I should. I needed the steps, the movement, the rhythm to remind me I have a body. At first, that’s all it was. Forward motion.

But then something shifted.

Maybe it was the crows. Or the way the light hit a petal I hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe I just finally caught up with myself.

What follows is a kind of prayer.
A kind of noticing.
A quiet turning of the soul toward what’s been there all along.

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Litany for a Walk Too Easily Missed

A prayer for one who almost didn’t notice

O Spirit who lingers
in the overlooked,
in the between,
in the whispers and seams,
in the moments that slip by
while we are measuring progress—
wait for me again.

I left with purpose,
not presence.
I left the house
counting steps instead of moments,
measuring breath by distance,
not by wonder.

But you—
you arrived anyway,
in the feathered sentinel above the sidewalk,
a crow
who knew me
by my past kindness,
cashews left out
like breadcrumbs of recognition.
He called as I passed,
as if to say,
I see you.

You hovered
in the blur of a hummingbird—
too quick to be reasonable,
but not too quick for awe.
A pulse of wings beside my path,
a still, small song,
too light to weigh the air,
but too real to ignore—
reminding me that beauty can be near
even when I forget to look.

I walked roads I’ve walked before—
familiar blocks,
but somehow
the trees had changed clothes
when I wasn’t watching.
Purple blooms in blossomed praise,
wrinkled leaves waving with wind,
gnarled limbs lifting
what I had once mistaken for bare.

I saw the playhouses again—
those unused little shelters
tucked behind fences,
windows open but always empty.
No chalk on the porch.
No dolls left behind.
Their silence a sermon.
Do the children now play
at working
more than we play
at joy?

And then the dogs—
some who barked
with earnest loyalty,
guarding the borders of lives they love.
Others who know me by now,
barked once,
twice,
then waited for me to come near enough
to meet their gaze
and say,
I remember you too.

I touched the petals of a flower—
soft as breath,
cool with morning,
fragile but certain.
Not to pluck,
but to know.
To feel what it is
to be alive and held
by something older than worry.
They did not flinch.
They seemed to know
I needed something
that didn’t need
to be fixed.

Even the men trimming trees—
in safety vests and sun-worn hats—
became sacraments.
Pruning. Shaping.
Making space for the light to reach
what grows.
They held saws like hymnals,
limbs falling in quiet grace.

And the sky above—
not just blue,
but childhood blue—
the kind I once trusted
would always be there.
The kind I forget
until it surprises me again
by being.

Even the insects—
darting, humming—
were purposeful
in their going.

So now I pray,
not with folded hands
but open palms,
open eyes.

Thank you
for the ones who bark and protect,
and the ones who remember me.
For petals and pruning.
For blossoms I missed.
For a breath that belongs to this moment
and to me.

Bless the buzzing things that passed close.
Bless the buds not yet brave enough to open.
Bless the magnolia’s surrender,
letting its white petals curl brown in peace.
And bless this breath,
which I almost forgot belonged to me—
which you gave again
as I slowed enough
to call this walk
a prayer.

Walk with me tomorrow
like you walked with me today—
quietly,
faithfully,
in all that I almost missed.

Amen.

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If something in this walk felt familiar to you—
if you’ve ever nearly missed the beauty right beside you—
you’re not alone.

I’d love to know what you've seen lately
when you slowed down enough to notice.

Feel free to share a thought, a memory, or a blessing of your own in the comments.
And if this reflection felt like something worth walking with,
you’re welcome to pass it along.

May you find something today
that surprises you
by simply being.