I’ll just say it. I don’t relate to the “Footprints” poem.
I grew up in a landlocked state and didn’t see the ocean until I was 22. It was a frigid November day in Washington state. My then boyfriend, now husband, took me to Kalaloch. I kept my shoes on the entire time on the rocky, driftwood-covered shore, unable to leave behind any prints in the packed sand.
My first trip to the Pacific Ocean. Rocky, cold, and beautiful…like my soul. ;)
Contrast that with my southern Idaho hometown. Known for its plethora of dairies, the human population was dwarfed by that of cattle. I didn’t spend time strolling along sandy beaches, I trolled mucky pastures.
We had boots for these outings. Doing chores on the farm called for rubber knee-high boots in a stylish shade of army green. Mud and manure were easily hosed off the surface as to not track any unwanted grime into the house. These boots weren’t pretty, but they were sure functional.
If you never walked through muck, let me describe it to you. It’s mud and manure mixed. In some areas, it’s deep enough to get your boot stuck. (Nothing like going to take a step and having your foot come right out of the boot, stepping sock-first into the stink.)
If there’s a harder surface underneath the muck, it turns, as my father would say, “slicker than snot.” Your foot will slide out from under you and you’ll do your darnedest to stay upright, but it’s likely you’ll land on your fanny and end up having to do a load of manure-covered laundry.
Regardless of its depth, muck stinks. Doesn’t matter the cows’ diet, their poop will always reek. The more cows you have, the stinkier the pasture.
Walking through muck is just a sacrifice you make to take care of the herd. It’s not fun, but it has to be done.
Going back to “Footprints,” I have since walked barefoot on sandy beaches, watching the water seep into the divots where I’d just stood. I looked out over a seemingly endless ocean, pondering where I fit into this vast universe.
I would take trials on a beautiful beach any day of the week. I wouldn’t care where Jesus was walking. He could be next to me, carrying me, piggybacking on my shoulders, wherever! Just the fact that He’s with me in that serene environment would ease my troubles.
Alas, my trials lie in the muck. In the stench of the pasture. No tide to ebb and flow, just a muddy ditch, dammed up in spots with tarps and stones. No limitless ocean views, just rocks and sagebrush and thistle.
Where is my Savior to lift me out of the mire?
As I look back on my life, I see where my trials were the most difficult because that’s where the most bootprints were. Not just my own, but those who God sent to pick me up and hose me off. Those who slogged into the depths to hand me a rope and pull my stuck self out in an epic battle of tug of war. Those who sat with me in the stink, not pulling or pushing, but waiting along side me until I could get up on my own.
They are my ministering angels.
My Savior may not be here physically to carry me through the hardest parts of life, but He knows in whom He can trust. I’m just grateful for those who heed the call to pull on the waders to trudge into my pasture of life.
