It has been over twelve years since we moved to this neighborhood. We first moved in on a bitter winter day. Beautiful even in its winter scenery, this neighborhood is a small rural village of about twenty households. The ratio between long-time native residents and newcomers who moved in is roughly even. It is a quiet, peaceful village where newcomers face little unwelcoming territorialism and where few incidents or accidents ever occur. When we first settled in and took in our surroundings, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: "If only a walking trail had been thrown in as a bonus..." Yet, I never uttered that thought aloud. It was because I remembered the example of my spiritual predecessor: "In all this, Job did not sin with his lips" (Job 2:10).

While I was not consciously bringing to mind the passage, "The mountain shall be yours... though it is a forest, you shall clear it, and its farthest border shall be yours" (Joshua 17:18), I took up a saw, a hoe, and a sickle, and spent some time tending to a walking trail. In truth, I was not blazing a brand-new path, but rather rediscovering the trails once traveled by people of old. In earlier days, folks gathered firewood and many other necessities from the mountains, keeping those footpaths well-trodden and alive. Yet times have changed, and those paths were no longer clearly visible. In some sections, thickets had grown so dense that a sickle or saw was essential, and occasionally even a pickaxe was called for. Thus, I carved out a favorite forty-to-fifty-minute loop. As I grew increasingly familiar with the surrounding terrain, I came to believe that there can hardly be another village blessed with as many trails winding north, south, east, and west as ours.

Now there is a diverse selection of routes—fifty minutes, an hour, an hour and a half, two hours, even three hours—allowing one to choose freely according to the circumstances of the day. In summer, I set out early in the morning; but in cold weather like this, the middle of the day seems to be the pleasantest hour for a walk. Just five minutes after leaving the house, I step into a pine forest—a tranquil woodland sheltered by pine trees that look anywhere from ten to fifty years old. In this season, the ground beneath one's feet feels as soft, warm, and inviting as a carpet, and it even carries a refreshing fragrance. With the fallen pine needles that drift down in late autumn, God kindly renews this carpet year after year, showing how deep His thoughts are toward us: "O Lord, how great are Your works! Your thoughts are very deep" (Psalm 92:5).

As I wander along the pine-scented path, I occasionally come across tarpaulin-covered mounds where pine trees killed by pine wilt disease have been cut down, piled together, and chemically treated. Someone once referred to these as "pine tree graves." Watching these pine graves multiply with each passing year brings a genuine ache to my heart. Yet, since that is a sorrow beyond my power to remedy, the humble task left to me is simply to clear away the dead branches scattered along the trail. Especially after strong winds have swept through, this turns out to be no small task. With the quiet wish that the path might be just a little gentler and clearer for whoever might walk behind me, I use my walking staff to sweep and nudge the branches aside. My wife, however, looks upon me with bemused amusement. There are always chores in our own yard waiting for a helping hand, yet I rarely attend to them of my own accord. Because outdoor concerns catch my eye while household tasks slip right past me, my wife has affectionately bestowed upon me the fitting nickname: "The Outdoor Gentleman."