We were told there was a fairy door somewhere along the path. It was small, hard to see, easy to miss, but some in our group had spied it before — on a Christmas Eve hike, no less — and so we knew it was there. We believed.
What did it look like? That we didn’t know. My daughters and I wondered aloud as we drove to the rendezvous point: Would it be big? Colorful? Made of some ancient wood, some mystical glass? We couldn’t be sure. But we could be excited — and we were.
We met up with some friends — a whole gaggle of fellow hikers, a cluster of eager children and their adults — and off we went into the Maryland woods. We traipsed over frozen mud and across well-worn bridges and past prickly vines eager to hook our sweaters until finally one of our number hushed us — you can’t approach a fairy door too loudly, I’ve learned — and all the kids, all 12 of them, crouched down next to this small mound in the hillside.
And they gasped. Giggled. Called us over to see.
And would you know, there, at some nondescript turn on a less-then-well-marked path in a not-at-all remote part of the Maryland wilderness sat a small door. It was hidden by the autumnal remnants of dead and dying leaves, framed by small and sturdy rocks. There were windows, of a sort, on either side of the door, though we couldn’t see inside.
“Can I knock, Dad?” my eldest asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Just be careful.”
And so she did and she was and we heard not a peep in response. Some of the kids were growing bored, eager to press on, more interested in galloping about over crunchy leaves and squishy mud. But my daughters — along with a few of their friends — were mesmerized by that little door. And I’ll be honest: I was, too.
“Do you think they’re home?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s their summer house.”
“Or maybe,” my daughter offered, “they’re waiting for us to leave. They don’t want to be seen. Or, they’re out collecting berries.”
All good and logical options. My girls sat and studied that door, wondering as to the whereabouts of these tiny, mythic critters. But as for me and the handful of adults still standing there at mystery’s doorstep, we were wondering something else: Who put this here? When? And why? Was this a game of some sort, or simply an invitation to pause and wonder, to allow the imagination to delight in far-off lands and magical possibilities?
We saw no fairies that day, perhaps, but we did come face to face with someone. Or, perhaps, many someones. Standing there, lost in wonder, we were asked to consider the unknowable “who” behind the strange little landmark. And in so doing, we were somehow bound up in that other person’s dream, in their whimsy, in their generosity in providing this touch of wonder along an otherwise ordinary hike.
The fairy door was no religious pilgrimage nor was it some holy grotto. But I do believe that as we step boldly into this new year, as we continue our own humble sojourns through our lives and across our planet, our God of the Universe — through the very ordinary hands of our fellow creatures — continues to put marvels at our feet, signposts that point not to answers but to delight, to wonder, to awe.
Do we pause to consider them? Do we linger and let our imaginations wander? Do we spare a moment for the who — and the Who — of the tiny fairy doors littered throughout our own days?
There’s nothing quite like a walk in the woods with a whole mess of elementary school students to awaken one’s eyes to the extraordinary hidden in the ordinary. But you don’t need to take kids on a hike to see that which is wonderful; you simply need to cultivate in yourself those eyes of childlike wonder.
Let that be part of our journey this new year. Let us see with delight God’s presence all around us.
