I love the poem about the footprints in the sand.  If you aren’t familiar, it is a story about someone reflecting on their life with God.  As the title suggests, the author is describing a dream where they are walking along a sandy beach and they take notice of the prints in the sand.  At first there are two sets of footprints, symbolizing their walk with Jesus.  Then there is only one set of footprints, and the story teller initially feels that they have been deserted by God, until they realize that Jesus is carrying them.   As much as I love the poem, and I do not intend to disrespect it, I have realized that there is also a third scenario.  I am quite sure I have experienced this third scenario in the past, and in all truth, wouldn’t be surprised if I experience it again sometime in my future. 

The third scenario features one set of footprints with a big smudge alongside.  The marks in the sand still belong to both Jesus and myself, however the footprints belong to Jesus, and the smudge belongs to me.  The smudge is where Jesus must drag my sorry backside.  I will even go farther to say that there are two different versions of the smudge.  One smudge is a real mess.  That is where I am being dragged, kicking and screaming.  While there are likely a lot of theologians who would disagree that Jesus would ever drag us anywhere against our will, I disagree.  I did not want to lose my husband, and I did not want to experience the grief.  I am quite sure I was in denial that I would even go through the process, thinking that I was prepared for what was ahead.  I thought I was in control of my life and my emotions.  I was, however, extremely wrong.  As is common with grief, I was ambushed by my emotions and was dragged, kicking and screaming (almost literally, some days), through the process.  It was not a pretty sight.

Then there is the second aspect to the scenario of the smudge:  the calm smudge.  You know the kind; it is like a big, heavy, uneven weight is being dragged.  That was me.  My limp carcass was dragged along the sand when I could no longer walk on my own.  I’m quite sure that Jesus was ‘over’ carrying me, but he still loves me enough to stay with me through my pathetic disbelief of what I was going through.  So, he dragged me once again, while I quietly sulked about my new reality.

It can be easy for the circumstances in life to get overwhelming and make us feel like we are being dragged against our will.  Personally, I need to remind myself that regardless of whether there are foot prints alongside mine, only one set of prints, or a messy smudge in the sand; I am not alone.  And I am very convinced that you aren’t alone either.  As much as I felt alone in my grief, I was not.  In the business of the day there was usually a kind person who would make me smile.  In the chaos of the storm there would be a moment or two of peace.  And at night, when the house was dark and quiet, I knew I was not alone.  If I listened carefully for the still, small voice of God, I could hear Him say that He was with me and that I was loved.

Which of the three scenarios of footprints can you relate to today?