Walk

1.    an act of traveling or an excursion on foot

It’s Halloween and I am cold and hot and sweaty and shaking.

AND I AM WALKING.

Every step is a marathon. Every breath is a mountain to climb.

I breathe in glimmers of hope-clean, pure, new. I exhale the poison, hurt, pain, deceit. Breathe in. Good. Breathe out. Heal. You can do this, God is with me!

The sweat beads up on my back. It drips. Grabbing onto all of the heartbreak, the misery, the lies, the manipulation, it falls. It crashes to my feet, and there it gathers into a pool of filth in my shoes.  I walk on my filth pool, squishing it further down and out of my body with every step. The Michigan bone chilling wind kisses my clothes and creeps up into my shirt, inappropriately rubbing its icy hands all over me. There is not a part that is safe from the binding grip of addiction. I cringe. I grab onto God with a white knuckle grip. I will not let go. I will not give up.

I feel dirty. I feel ashamed. How could I have done this? Who am I?

I guess this is why Jesus washed feet? They bear the weight. They gather filth pools of sweat from life that we ourselves have shattered, that I myself have broken.

And I walk. And I pray that cheesy prayer that I learned while sitting in a room full of people who “do it with enthusiasm.”

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

I’m coming up to my 4th birthday. Not a day goes by when I don’t praise the Lord for saving my soul. For picking me up and carrying me when I could not walk. For holding my hand and walking with me when I could not do it myself. For letting me take those first steps and then watching me as I learned to run and to soar. God is good ALL OF THE TIME!

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