Uneven Ground
Dear Pilgrim,
Someone told me today, “We all grow at different times.” And though my lips said yes, my heart whispered, But what comfort is that? Should I be consoled that my growth has lagged behind others’ springtimes—that at thirty-eight, though I cradle children of my own, my soul still fumbles like a fledgling just stepping into the hush of young adulthood? I know this is meant to inspire self-compassion. But if I am honest, it feels more like self-pity dressed in softer clothes. A polite way of saying: You’re behind, but at least you’re trying. And it is hard—so hard—not to judge myself for this.
So I wandered in thought, and found myself—inevitably—back in the classroom of my memory. Back to chalkboards and crayon boxes, to the language of pedagogy and scaffolding. You may not know this term, so let me unfold it for you gently.
In education, we see it plainly: some children arrive at kindergarten already turning pages, already shaping letters like magic. Teachers beam. Parents are praised. Others arrive not knowing the sound of their name in a schoolroom, never having traced a single letter. And some, dear pilgrim, walk into class with hunger gnawing beneath their ribs—not for knowledge, but for food. Their eyes drift to the clock, not the whiteboard, counting the hours until their next meal. Would it be comfort to say to them, “You’ll grow in time. You’re just on a different path.” What cruelty that would be, if left without aid, without care, without scaffold.
Scaffolding—yes, that’s the word that returned to me. In construction, it is a structure, temporary, to reach what is too high to touch. In education, it is the same: a tender structure offered to the child so they can reach alongside their peers, as an equal. And it struck me—how much of life mimics that classroom. We pretend the ground is level at birth, but it is not. Some are born where the earth is firm and sunlit, where paths are paved and the way is smooth. Others come into the world where the ground is cracked and sunken, where every step is uphill through thorns and shadow. Some must first learn to survive the terrain before they can even think of the journey. Some walk barefoot where others were handed shoes. Should those who began in the valley be shamed for not dancing on the summit? Should I?
No one would say so aloud. And yet, the quiet judgments press in—the pity cloaked as praise, the applause for those ahead while those behind carry silence like a stone. But here, pilgrim, is where the holy mystery begins. God sees the scaffolds. He knows the gaps. He does not demand a harvest where the soil was never tilled. He comes to us, not as the Examiner with a red pen, but as the Gardener who knows how deep the frost was and how late the thaw has come. He descends to the one behind. He lifts. He builds. He teaches. And He fills what is lacking. Even in a woman whose body bears the age of motherhood, but whose heart feels young and unfinished.
This is not failure. This is pilgrimage. And the scaffolds, though not meant to stay, are not shameful. They are holy tools. Gifts of mercy along a jagged path. So I will not scold my slow growth anymore. I will not mock the gaps. Instead, I will honor the God who found me in the unfinished places—and stayed.
I invite you, dear sojourner, to do the same. Encourage the one behind you. Reach for the one beside you. Look up at the one ahead, but only to say: “Glory to God for how far we’ve all come.” For in the Kingdom, the last are not forgotten—they are often the most tenderly carried.
The ground is not level, yes. But with Christ it is.
