One night I dreamed a
dream.
I was walking along the
beach with my Lord.
Across the dark sky
flashed scenes from my life.
For each scene, I noticed
two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonged to me and one
to my Lord.
When the last scene of my
life shot before me,
I looked back at the
footprints in the sand.
There was only one set of
footprints.
I realized that this was
at the lowest
And saddest times of my
life.
This always bothered me
And I questioned the Lord
about my dilemma.
“Lord, You told me when I
decided to follow You
You would walk and talk
with me all the way
But I’m aware that during
the most troublesome times of my life,
There is only one set of
footprints,
I just don’t understand
why, when I need You the most,
You leave me.”
He whispered, “My precious
child, I love you
And will never leave you,
never, ever,
During your trials and
testings
When you saw only one set
of footprints,
It was then that I carried
you.”
The year I lived with my
grandmother she had this poem, so famously printed over surf and sand, hanging
in the one place where everyone in the house would see it, the restroom. Everyone went there and everyone read it
before they left the room. It was a constant
reminder for our day to day lives.
When I came back home to Texas
this poem followed me. My mother had a
copy of the same picture hanging in our restroom. Bookmarks of it were everywhere and I had one
as well. Every time I would read it, I would
think of my grandmother and all that she taught me.
But just like footprints
in the sand, the surf of time would slowly erase the prints. This happened when my grandmother took her
last breath.
I was not fortunate enough
to spend as much time with my grandmother as some of my other cousins did but I
can recall all the time that I did. There
was so much strength, so much wisdom in this tiny lady, and she shared it with
everyone.
Discipline was never
lacking in my family. Whoppins and
scoldings were plenty. Even at the end
of her life I witnessed this when she was talking to one of my cousins. That fire burned bright when she scolded her
for picking on her younger brother. I
smiled and laughed and that fire was directed at me for laughing at my cousin,
burning me like when I was a teen, but this time I was grateful for it.
“I’m sorry grandma,” was
my reflex response, but the reason for my sorrow was not what it once would
have been. I was sorry for I knew I
would never hear those scoldings words of wisdom again. I just stood up from the table, gathered the
dirty dishes and gave her a kiss on her cheek before heading to the kitchen
sink.
I can remember ever
whoopin I received from her. Every
spoon, every flip flop, and every switch beating I took for my misactions. Every scolding that followed those
disciplines. I may have been a large
young man, but I was never too old to be whooped, as long as she had the
strength to do it.
At the time each
discipline had always been filled me with fear.
Now, I smile and laugh as I can feel my grandmother’s warmth and love with
each stroke of discipline.
Now I know that when times
are hard, when the floodgates of grief open up over missing her wash over me, I
can read this poem and know she is with me.
Her footprints will always be with me.
