Sometimes the simplest spiritual metaphors are the best ones.

My son Rowan is almost two. He has discovered that he loves being outside, and he loves going for walks. All I have to do is say “do you want to go for a walk?” Once I say that sentence, he will stop at nothing to get out the door.

Generally, when we go for a walk, it ends up being a simple around-the-block, which adds up to about four total blocks. This is how that walk normally looks:

We leave the house. Rowan is excited and runs strong for the first block-and-a-half or so. He stops here and there—to pick up a rock, look at a dog, or try to open someone’s car door—but all it usually takes is me saying “let’s go, buddy” and gently pushing him along for him to start running again.

Around the halfway point, he gets worn out. He literally will just stop out of nowhere and sit down on the sidewalk. He just looks at up me, content as ever. In his head, he’s tired, he’s done walking, so our walk is done. This obviously isn’t true, but he also obviously doesn’t understand that. So I pick him up, and say, “alright, let’s go.” We start walking again, Rowan in my arms. He’s fine for 20 feet or so. Then he starts pushing me, wiggling, and saying “down, please!”

I set him down, he starts running again, and another 20 feet later, he sits down again.

So I pick him up again. He pushes me away again. I set him down again. This pattern goes on for the last two blocks of our walk.

And then we get about two houses away from ours. He sees our house, demands to be put down, and sprints to the steps. He climbs up the steps, and excitedly waits for me to open the door to that wonderful, safe, loving place that he couldn’t wait to leave a half hour earlier.

Think about it.