I was eleven when I decided to take a shortcut through the woods on my way back from my friend Jacob’s house. I had taken it once before with my older cousin, but this was the first time I tried it alone.

It started off fine—sunlight filtered through the trees and the birds were chirping. I felt brave. But about ten minutes in, I realized nothing looked familiar. The trees got thicker. The air grew quieter. I had no idea where I was.

Panic started to creep in. I remembered the story of the lost sheep from Sabbath School. “God sees you,” I whispered out loud, trying to steady my breathing. I paused, folded my hands, and prayed—honestly prayed—for help. “God, I know I messed up. Please help me find my way.”

A few minutes later, I heard rustling and the bark of a dog. I followed the sound and soon saw a woman walking her golden retriever. She was just as startled as I was, but kind. She walked me to a nearby road and waited with me until my parents picked me up.

That night, I told my parents the whole story. We prayed together, and I realized something: even when I take the wrong path, God hasn’t lost sight of me.