A pocket full of stones…

 

If you’ve ever been around anyone churchy, chances are you’ve heard the poem Footprints. It’s all about a guy walking along a beach (his life). He looks back and during the good times there were two sets of footprints (God and him) and during the rough times he only sees one set of footprints. And this guy gets all and at God and demands to know why he would have left him alone during the hardest times in his life and God assures him that he never left, where there is only one set of footprints, that is God carrying him.

I grew up with this poem and I always thought it was a neat parable. But it got me to thinking, when I look back at the footprints of my life… where have I been? As a child, I collected rocks. Whenever we went to the beach I would spend most of the time looking down at the ground. The ones I wanted to keep I would give to my parents for safe-keeping. Well after twenty or thirty “special” rocks the weight would add up and my parents would start dumping them out when I wasn’t looking. In the same way I have collected rocks through my life. I have picked up pretty ones and not so pretty ones and now they are becoming heavy…

It just struck me how much the past really affects us. How much our childhood experiences taint us for good or bad. For example, a child that is hit so much he thinks its normal will likely grow up to hit out of anger. It’s sad but true. I was raised to be an over-achiever, a perfectionist. Not because my parents were horrible, but because they truly wanted the best out of me. They wanted me to “be all I could be”. I stood out so much in school for being smart. I never was a “nerd” but I was always set apart for my intelligence. Even in highschool, my teachers would make special arrangements for me and set me apart from others. Then I got to university and I became a number. No one cared about my circumstances or who I was. If I didn’t perform like “so” I reaped the consequences! I had such a difficult time staying motivated if no one told me I did a good job. I find it hard to be proud of myself for what I do on its own merit. I feel like if my achievements are unrecognized than I have not achieved anything at all. How pathetic… one more stone in my pocket.

All the stones I carry of broken friendships, fears, misunderstandings and disillusionments weigh me down. My pockets are literally bulging with these dirty, broken stones. If I look closer, I carry some pretty stones too. Like the friend I have an inappropriate attraction too and our memories of old times together. What a pretty memory. The pretty stones are the memories of being skinny and attractive, all the boys I’ve kissed and the juicy, precious moments of my past. Even the pretty ones weigh me down.

My footprints are far deeper than they need to be. When will I become smart enough to dump out my pockets? To empty this mass I have carried so voluntarily? Could my next set of footprints really be lighter? Could I be energized enough to run or skip? I would be much more likely to dance in the sand if I wasn’t so petrified of losing my precious cargo.

What do you carry with you?