The Only Miles That Should Be Counted In Life Are Those Traveled By Foot Morf Morford   © Copyright 2026 by Morf Morford

Photo by the author.

I like long solitary walks. At night. In the rain. With no direction or expectation.

Sep 07, 2025

The only miles that should be counted in life are those traveled by foot

The human world, with its obligations, its measurements, its bland and barren “efficiency” is seen, through the mists of a rainy evening, as it is; bright and sealed off, as if creation itself was not welcome within those hardened walls and locked doors.

No room in the Inn

Christians believe, even celebrate, the exclusion of the Christ Child as he clamored to be born.

Many apparently believe it so deeply that they too would exclude and shut out any – especially those who didn’t belong or were needy. Or needing to be born – one way or another.

Sometimes being born requires a drizzly evening, and a neighborhood of locked doors and questioning looks.

I see no one being born this particular evening, but the life in the air is almost tangible. I can taste something holy and alive in it.

It has the taste and texture of a membrane, a substance, maybe even a presence.

If I were God, only those miles traveled by foot would count. Only those words spoken to strangers would be remembered. Only that money or that jacket that one wanted to keep, but was desperately needed by someone else, and freely given away, would be credited to whatever that final account might be.

And those times, when we interrupted our very important schedule to talk to someone lost, or spoke to that lonely person in the grocery store check-out line, those just might be the jewels of eternity.

And those harsh words, spoken by us, or to us, will hang like clanging metal scraps in the distance – as if they were a bad dream, that when we awake, we are relieved to leave behind.

Those in every community, who never seem to find themselves on the right side of walls and windows on a rainy night see us, and marvel at our comforts and our miles and miles of distance behind our walls.

They walk and see and remember, and in their own way, take notes of every door locked as they approach.

They have, as one told me, no place to go, and no place to be.

They have that, at least, in common, with the rejected Christ child.

There is no room for them. Anywhere.

Anytime.

They are shapes on the ground, or in motion.

Those of us with doors and walls see them, and we know, or hope, that they are nothing like us.

We buy bigger locks, and brighter lights, and want those muffled voices and huddled shapes to go away.

They are not like us, we tell ourselves. And we tell them.

“You are not like us. You are not one of us!”

And we hope it convinces them. Or us.

But even as we say these words, we feel the taste of betrayal on our lips.

The louder we say those words, the more we betray ourselves. And them.

We are indeed not like them. And they are not like us.

We have walls.

They are not welcome in our world.

And they know it.

And we remind them, just in case they forget.

But they never forget. They are never allowed to forget.

Every word they hear, every click or clunk of a locked door is a reminder.

They are not welcome here. Or there. Or anywhere.

Or any time. Today, tomorrow or yesterday, the story is the same.

Once you step outside those walls, the walls themselves will not let you in.

Sometimes it seems to rain forever. And the darkness falls like an eternal haze.

But nothing; no darkness, no wall, no rain, is forever.

And maybe no ending is final either. Our voyage continues, on foot, in the rain, in the misty darkness.

And maybe those without a home, finally find one. They reach that place beyond walls, and if they have doors, they never lock them.