The Beauty of Old Paths

I spent the week with my family in the desert of the Trans-Pecos, a ruggedly beautiful part of far west Texas. Paisano Baptist Encampment was founded in July of 1915, and in August of the following year, George Truett, renowned pastor of First Baptist Dallas, preached the first camp sermon standing in the back of a wooden wagon. The history of the camp Is long and interesting. Many great pastors, hymn writers, and musicians are a part of the story, along with thousands of regular Christian families who have walked the dusty pathways of what can only be described as a spiritual sanctuary in the middle of a dry, cactus-filled landscape.

As soon as we got close to the camp, our cell phone service dropped out completely. It was like handcuffs miraculously opening and falling away. We camped at Paisano, worshiping in the open air tabernacle constructed in 1950, eating every homecooked meal in the screened dining hall, the same structure where families and friends have been eating together since at least the 1930s. We parked the little camper that Chad’s aunt gave us out in the very fields that were once filled with covered wagons and canvas tents.

I was struck by the beauty of walking the old paths. I’m not just talking about the dirt roads that lead campers from one place to another.

One evening we sat and listened to the pastor preach from Matthew 6, the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus’ words rang out across the tabernacle as night fell around us. Then suddenly the downpour that dark clouds had promised began, and as the pastor finished his sermon, we stood and picked up old red hymnals. We sang the songs that our mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers sang. We breathed in the scent of rain in the tabernacle the way generations of worshipers had done before us.

We took a step back into the old ways of religion, and it was refreshing, like rain on the desert mountains. The slowness of it. The sincerity in well-loved traditions, traditions that invite a homespun reverence for Christ. The sense of Christian love and welcome. The absence of intrusions from the outside world. Everywhere we looked were babies in strollers, toddlers kicking up dust in their once white tennis shoes, old folks visiting under the shade of ancient trees, teenagers laughing in congenial huddles, and children riding bikes in all directions.

In walking these old paths, I realized that one reason I feel so wrung out in the “real world” is because I forget the importance of slowing down, of experiencing God’s goodness in the simplicity of an unhurried search for His wisdom. I complicate things so much by letting the things of this world dictate how I seek Him. In my day to day, it seems like a fight to try to know God more, a fight against discouragement streaming in through my phone, a fight against frantic busyness, a fight against exhaustion, a fight against my own lack of discipline. But on those old paths I remembered that seeking God is not meant to be a struggle, but a joy. A simple joy, like waking up to the sun peeking over brushy mountains.

It’s a joy to have His word. It’s a joy to learn from Him slowly, not trying, panicked, to rush the process along just because I live in a frantic world. Growth takes time.

On my first morning at camp, I found myself walking alone toward the tabernacle. As I followed the unfamiliar, but well-worn path, on one side I heard teenagers singing, praising God. On another side I heard children shouting their team cheers as their leaders, including my three oldest kids, taught them about Jesus. I noticed that the birds were singing particularly enthusiastically in the cool morning. In the distance, a dog barked. The sun created dappled shade through the trees along the road. I heard the pianist warming up in the distant tabernacle. And I remembered that the Christian life is so much simpler than I make it. God’s goodness is all around, and maybe walking the old paths is one way to see it clearly.