Steps

"Zwei (two)!" said the Grandpa triumphantly to his small grandson, as my friend and I boarded the bus headed for the Wernigerode train station. We wobbled down the aisle past the counting passengers to our seats as the bus started down the street; the conversation behind us, however, continued as the bus passed the next--empty--station without slowing down at all.

"There isn't anybody out today because of the cold," the Grandpa explained. "They're all inside their houses sleeping."

His observations were not especially interesting, but his running commentary didn't cease until we had arrived at the stop for "Western Tor," the family's destination, at least for the bus part of the journey.

"Hurry, hurry," Grandpa urged the little boy out of his seat as the bus rocked to the side of the road. "We'll get out here and then go the rest of the way by foot."

They stood before the opening bus door.

"Ok, one big step!"

With that admonition, the little boy leapt out of the bus, and the automatic door sprang shut behind him, leaving the family outside to continue their journey home.

I turned back toward the window, starring at the sidewalks, a fresh coating of powdery snow perfectly outlining the footsteps of the people who, despite Grandpa's theory, were indeed out that blustery afternoon.

Normally, I wouldn't have thought twice about Grandpa's last comment or about the black prints showing through the thin film of snow covering the sidewalks--but it wasn't the first time steps had been brought to my attention that day.

Earlier that morning, the pastor had opened the church service by announcing the sermon would be about steps: steps toward truth, steps we take toward God, steps in life. I was definitely a little confused at first, second-guessing the meaning of the word "Schritte," wondering if I'd heard correctly.

I had. Only the ordinariness of the idea caught me off guard.

Usually, I only pay attention to my own steps when something's wrong. When I'm tired. When my feet hurt. When I'd rather be sitting than walking.

For the first time in my life this winter, I've been paying attention to my steps because my feet have been COLD. Walking through the snow will do that, I guess, as will waiting in below freezing temperatures for buses that are over 10 minutes late, and slowing being covered by snow--something like standing under a giant salt shaker.

The other steps I've been pondering, though, are those on the road to adulthood. Because unlike the grandson on the bus, I don't have an overly-watchful grandfather dictating my every move. My steps are made, largely, independently. Whether or not they're made deliberately may be questionable at times, but regardless of the impetus, the outcome (and the consequences) belong to me. Especially in Germany, where I not only depend a great deal on my feet for transportation but also individually determine how to use the time not spent in the classroom, planning my route is important.

With national stereotypes of efficiency and punctuality (although I've wondered about that one a few times since the snow started), Germany's not necessarily a county you would consider laid back. However, compared to the previous picture of my rat-race, on-the-go all-the-time mentality, for me the pace of life has slowed drastically since crossing the Atlantic.

For the last couple years, I've been running (figuratively) so hard and fast that I haven't had time to slow down, look at a map, or think about where I'm going. For that matter, I've missed the significance of being in the places I've been. Moving to another country might seem like a big step to some people, but I'm pretty sure in my case it was just a flying leap off a cliff--I'd been hurdling toward the edge, and there wasn't really a better option by the time I jumped.

When I landed, heavily jet-lagged and a little disoriented, I finally woke up to what I was experiencing...and stopped in my tracks. I wanted to experience the beauty of the lush green woods shading into a vibrant yellow, set off by the orange carnations tumbling out of flower boxes. And when the first snow turned those woods white, I, like Robert Frost, wanted to stop and stare, entranced by the soft flakes muting the landscape.

Nonetheless, I, too, have promises to keep, engagements to fulfill, and miles to go before this year's up. And three months into this adventure, I think I'm starting to find a steady tempo: although it's alright to schedule some down time (breaks are important, after all), you have to keep walking if you want to get anywhere in the end.