Messy Footprints

sometimes, just walking the path is enough

Greetings from Virginia Beach!

This week was the end of second quarter at my kids’ school, so they had yesterday and today off. Actually school was closed all week due to the MLK holiday, plus two glorious snow days:

We’ve done getaways during this weekend in previous years, but we often head up, whether to parts north, or to the mountains to ski… but this time we drove a few hours south. So far we’ve watched movies and played cards, and it was warm enough today to sit on the beach, where James gleefully dug a huge hole (and filled it in again). Tomorrow we’ll visit the aquarium; Saturday we’ll head home so I can preach on Sunday.

We’ve never been a beach family—I get seasick in the surf, the sun wants to destroy my Scots-Irish skin, and like young Darth Vader, I hate sand—but the beach in the off season is one of the landscapes of the soul, perfect for long solitary walks, bundled up in contemplation. There’s something metaphysical about those out-and-backs along the lapping and crashing water, retracing your steps, which you can literally see imprinted in the sand, a bas relief record that You Were Here… until time wears it away as time inevitably does.

Most of us know that famous, oft-parodied “footprints in the sand” poem. It’s usually accompanied by an image of pristine sand and impeccably-shaped prints… suitable for framing, or Instagram: 

Not so much.

The reality of footprints is quite different. With each step, we tend to kick up a little pile of sand, you see—a teeny hill where our forefoot propels us on, a move called dorsiflexion. To make perfect prints in the sand, you’d have to walk in a truly unnatural manner. 

That’s me.

And isn’t that life? Off we go on our merry little way, doing our level best, but so endlessly messy, raw, imperfect—rarely as good as the pretty pictures. As I walked, I listened to a recording of a writer who described us as “self-aware stardust”… and later, as babies in adult costumes, and oh yes we are. Astounding, and so very flawed.

Some time ago, my kid was in distress, and in an attempt to assuage their pain, and mine, I reacted in a way that was, well, reactive. Sometime I’ll tell the story in more detail, but suffice to say, while there was good stuff there—positive feedback and good ideas for the future—it was encased in a lot of anxiety and dysregulation. I berated myself for a while after that one. I’m the parent. I should know better. Good intention, poor execution.

Some time later, on my birthday, we were engaged in our family tradition of each of us sharing what we appreciated about the birthday person. My kid brought up that moment, that seed of something good, wrapped as it was in parental angst. They appreciated the very event I’d been beating myself up for. It helped them. They knew what I’d been trying to do and it made a positive difference. I’ve treasured and pondered this moment since then as an extension of grace, but also a reminder of the fullness of our human relationships, a fullness that puts our stumbles in a more loving context.

Of course, the way we do things matters. As activist Valarie Kaur likes to say, the way we make change is as important as the change we make. (This sentiment helped inspire our most recent worship series at Trinity, The How of Jesus, in which we are considering not so much “what would Jesus do” but “how did he do it, and how do we follow his example?”)

Still, even our most purposeful steps are going to kick up the sand a bit. It’s just the way we’re made. I want to love my kids perfectly, but maybe it’s more important that I love them immensely. Perhaps some things are important enough that they’re worth doing messily if that’s how they get done.

Steady on.

~

What I’m Up To

As mentioned, I’m preaching on Sunday, January 21 at 10:15 EST at Trinity Presbyterian Church Herndon or online.

Last call on next week’s discussion of Tim Snyder’s book On Tyranny, Thursday January 25 from noon to 1 EST via Zoom. Details for supporting subscribers is here. Let’s have a purposeful, solutions-oriented 2024, despite [gesturing at everything]. 

Link Love

In a “time bank,” members accumulate bankable hours, for instance by babysitting or doing repairs, and get “repaid” with assistance when they need it, usually later in life. What a lovely thing.