When I picture the wild, bright trail my own faith has followed, I remember a silent dawn in the foothills far from home. Shoes dusted with red sand, I walked past waking cottages and drank in the unfamiliar hush. Alone, but not lonely, I found a weathered bench along the route. Reading Psalm 121 beside pealing church bells in a language I could not decipher grounded me more than any Sunday service ever had. Strangeness strained my habits until gratitude filled the gaps—prayer rising unbidden...

The first time I stepped outside the safety of well-worn vacation routines, it was not for a change of scenery or to cross off a landmark. I wanted to understand what drew so many people toward places that tested them—toward long walks in silence, coffee with strangers in borrowed kitchens, and small roles in kind acts far from home. Years back, I watched one of my sons sitting at twilight beside a lake in northern Georgia, journal open, tears drying on his hands after wrestling with...