The expedition began deceptively and without warning. On the day after Christmas, my daughter and I were going outside to burn the trash in the old barrel hidden in the hardwood grove north of the in-laws' Iowa farmhouse. Anne, snug in her blue snowsuit, patiently waited for me by the back door while I gathered the two bags. Even on vacation, something always needed doing.
She eagerly followed me along the winding path through the trees, our boots crunching the ice-crusted snow. While I lit the fire in the rusted barrel, Anne discovered the waist-high wall of large boulders which ran along the grove's north edge.

She quickly clambered up the rocks, sliding or jumping from one to another, resembling, in her snowsuit, an astronaut on the moon. Below her, scattered along the base of the boulders, rusted tools and discolored bottles protruded from the dirt and snow. Over the course of a century, the grove had collected and covered much trash.

Within a short time, the fire was burning down and I looked for Anne. She had climbed down the rocks and was walking eastward, gingerly stepping over some fallen trees.

Curious, I caught up with her, asking her what she was doing.

"You can follow me through the woods," she stated.

I decided not to press the question. Sometimes one can learn best by watching.

She worked her way east, diligently weaving around trees while ducking under large branches or charging through small ones, snapping them off. She seemed to deliberately calculate the most difficult route.

As I followed, my hat caught on a sharp, claw-like branch and I often left her path for an obviously easier one.

Eventually we reached the eastern edge of the grove, yet her enthusiasm for trailblazing didn't end with the trees. I had not planned to be out so long. Other things needed to get done.

"I'm getting cold," I hinted.

"I'm not," she reassured me.

"Don't you think we should hike to that road and go back to that rock pile?"

"I want to find the woods again." She pointed back to the tangle of ingrown trees we had just escaped. "Let's go this way."

"The road's easier."

"No. I want to go this way."

"Why this way?"

"The road is lighter. This way is darker."

"Oh." What could I say against such logic? Again, I followed her.

As we began our convoluted meandering again, I realized that this grove once planted for a wind-break and used as a cover for trash was, in her eyes, an unchartered wilderness. By wandering among the trees, she wasn't trying to do anything practical or reach any destination. She was exploring God's creation.

Then it occurred to me that in our modern society, actions must be justified by what is feasible, practical, economical. Where was time for adventure? Where was time for the spiritual? We not only have no time for God, we have no time for God's handiwork.

Maybe we parents need to spend time with our children, not just for their sakes, but for our own. By watching them, we clear our adult eyes, so blurred by the cataracts of responsibilities and deadlines, and can see the childlike wonder in a simple grove of trees. We need to see a trip to a burning barrel not as just another task to complete, but as a Grand and Glorious Expedition.

"How about if I pick the trail for a little bit?" I asked.

"Okay," she smiled.