Strong. This is how people I don’t live with have described me lately.
Interesting really. It’s the opposite of how I’ve felt. Or maybe it’s ironic? It just depends on the mood I guess, or whether you’re with the coffee gang or the party animals.
My oldest son told me that ‘strong’ is what people see when they look at me. All 4′ 11 1/2″ of me. They see someone who is steadfast and firm in the face of sorrow and tragedy. I see me as someone who acts best in roles that are the hardest to play. Don’t put me at a poker table. Don’t ask me to cover for you with a mutual friend. I suck at lying. I suck at acting. But when the poo hits the big-ass fan, something weird takes over me and carries me on his big-ass shoulders.
I know. This isn’t how we envision footprints.
This is how I live it. This is how we live it.
Miracles aren’t always slap-you-in-the-face-with-a-big-burning-bush sorts. Sometimes they’re of the everyday wake up with a new sense of purpose types. We’re not standing on our own 2 feet then. We’re standing on something much bigger. Sturdier. Something we can’t touch, but something that can pick us up and carry us through.
‘That’s my footprints’ we think. ‘I carry myself’, we think.
True Faith, true character, true living comes from crawling in the dark, tears leaping from our bagged eyes, and just when we think we can’t take another stride, we find ourselves. Running out into the light that we never knew was there in the first place. Running with direction instead of running with scissors. Because we are carried after all. Two feet, one head, and millions of prayers along the way.