My Shoes

Eight years ago, almost to the day, we began.
I finally grabbed hold of His outstretched hand. 
The miry clay, still warm and sticky on bare feet, but no longer able to hold me captive.

My infancy was long.  He's been a patient Father.
An involved and active Father, working many changes in this babe.
But He mostly had to carry me.  Without complaining, He did.

More than six years in, it was time to put walking shoes on.
For a while they were new and uncomfortable.  I was wobbly.
He still had to tie them for me and set me on my feet.
Teetering toward Him, His words were always encouragement.
"That's it.  You've got it.  You're doing it!"
His expectations were for little by little forward motion.

The walking shoes were soon broken in. 
Quickly became worn and a little tight.
I could not go far but they were comfortable and safe.
So He waited until I began asking for new ones.

They are a little big but He says I need the room to grow.
They are not really my style, either.
Made for the outdoors, for climbing and exploring.
Hiking boots? For a girl who likes the safety and security the indoor spaces provide?

I put them on. 
I trust His gifts.  They are good and perfect.
He has shown Himself trustworthy these eight years.
I've had them almost a year. 
I still can't go anywhere in them unless I am holding His hand.
But we like it that way.

My feet are stepping places I never thought possible!
Stomping on strongholds I had long given up hope of overcoming.
Walking into victory.

All the while, stopping frequently, for rest and refreshsment.
Kicking off heavy boots to dip sore feet in still waters.
Lying down in green pastures, with tears streaming, I rejoice in callouses.
Reminders of our adventure so far.

Ahead looms another mountain. 
Ominous and treacherous.  Peak shrouded in dark, angry clouds.
I've been shouting at it to move.
But He wants us to scale it.
And strangely, I do, too!

 Joining Emily in celebrating redemption and making a theology of the arts through my imperfect prose.