Footprints and driftwood

I have been thinking about the footprints I saw in the sand on my recent trip to the beach. As I walked on the beach, the sand was full of them – some little, some big, some alone, some together, some full feet, some just toes, some deep, some shallow, some human, some animals – mainly birds and dogs. I can imagine stories to go with them all. I can see in my mind the child gleefully dancing in the surf chasing the elusive edge of the water. I can see the couple walking hand in hand. I can see the lonely ones missing those who are dear. I can see the athlete breathing the fresh air while his dog runs beside him. Then I began to think: what kind of footprints am I leaving? When someone comes behind me, are there things that I am leaving to give hints about that I have lived? What kinds of stories will the clues I leave behind tell? When someone looks at my footprints, what stories will they imagine?

The Sunday after I came home from my trip, the images of footprints and these questions were fresh in my mind. Our pastor was gone and a guest pastor was preaching. He read Psalm 77 and a verse jumped out at me since it talks about God’s footprints. Verse 19 says, “Your [God’s] path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen.” In the famous poem about footprints, the man asks Jesus why he walked alone through the hardest times of his life and Jesus responds that it was in those times that He carried the author. In the poem the single footprints belonged to Jesus. I think this is a beautiful picture. Yet here is a Psalm written when the Psalmist was going through a hard time, and God’s involvement was not evident. The solution to his distress is to remember the works God has done for him and for his people even during times when God’s footprints were not seen. When I find myself becoming afraid or distressed, this is what I try to do – to remind myself of the wonderful things I have seen God do and find comfort in that. I know that even if I don’t see his footprints, he is still actively involved and that his plans are good.

One other thing jumped out at me in my walk on the beach, and that was the driftwood on the shore. Every now and then I would come across a large piece of wood, washed ashore. I wondered where it had been. If it had eyes, what kinds of things would that piece of wood have seen? If it could talk, what stories would it tell? Obviously it can neither see nor talk, so the answers to these questions will remain a mystery. Somehow that seems a bit sad. Thinking about this lead me to think of those in my life who are infinitely more valuable than even the rarest of woods who have also been around for a long time and who have seen so much. In contrast to the wood, the elders among us do have eyes, ears, and mouths and can share their stories, if we will stop to hear them. Do we care and stop to listen, or do we pass them by like driftwood on the shores of our lives? I have certainly fallen at times into both camps – those who take the time to listen, and those who are in too big a hurry to care. When I take the time to stop, ask questions, then listen carefully to the answers, I have learned so much while at the same time bestowing dignity on the one telling the stories.

My stories from my time at the beach have just about all been told. I hope though, that the lessons I learned there will remain in my mind for a long time.