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Finding My Feet

by Naomi Allen, Tuesday 20th June 2017

Naomi Allen Hello! This week I bring you something a bit different.

This poem was inspired by a pair of shoes that rubbed my feet until they bled. For a whole day, I was walking around with this pain, trying to tread lightly or position my feet in ways that would avoid further skin being ripped off. Itís not a nice image, Iím sorry, but itís one that reminded me of how our journeys of faith can often be. We can be walking in shoes that used to fit, but just arenít protecting our feet anymore. We can stumble onto the wrong path, trip into the mud, or simply not notice that we have lost the joy of walking. One of the most helpful things about the internship has been the space it provides to stop and look at our feet. Am I walking simply because thatís what the people around me are doing? Am I taking this journey seriously, am I equipping myself for what comes next?

As we near the end of the internship, it has been good to stop and reflect on all the ways that God has gently been helping me walk.

Finding my Feet
Weary feet tread trodden path,
Footsteps following the well-worn track.
Bruised by stones, pricked by thorns.
Hardened skin and dirty nails.
Shoes too tight, skin rubbed raw.
Step by step.
Slow progress.

Weary feet stop and wait,
Balance atop the rocky ground.
Pause amid the tangled nettles.
Shift from painful heels to twisted toes.
Watch others pass by on tired,
Aching,
Bleeding,
Feet.

Weary feet move again,
For there seems to be another way.
Well hidden,
Off the beaten road,
Through trees and shrubs and branches.
No other feet are wandering here,
Solitude.

Weary feet step softly here,
Stones replaced by grass.
Padded footsteps.
Silent footfall.
Shoes cast away.
Fresh spring grass caresses wounded skin,
Damp and cool and alive.

Weary feet find healing rest,
Running water to restore.
White horses run the dust away.
Cleansing.
Cleaning.
Blood and mud and grime,
Washed downstream.

Weary feet stand soundlessly,
As scarred hands reach down.
As gentle fingers touch the stings,
And cuts,
And bruises.
And slowly, painfully,
Begin to make them whole.

Contented feet sit quietly,
No longer bearing weight.
In the presence of the one who walked
The way of thorns before.
Cleaned and cured.
Whole and healed.
Ready for a new direction.

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