Footsteps

I took a walk yesterday in the fresh, clean snow that had settled onto our east Tennessee ridge. We don’t see snow like this very often. I wanted to meander across Kirkhaven’s meadows and trek through familiar wooded trails . . . enjoying the beauty of this blanketed landscape before it all melted away. The sky had cleared, the sun was out, and it looked like a perfect day for a winter stroll.

It was a treasure-hunt of sorts. I was looking for footprints. I often see wildlife scampering across our property or lingering along the wood’s edge. I wondered if I could track rabbits, deer, turkeys, or coyotes along my favorite walking route.

I didn’t take my ipod with me. Music is usually standard protocol when I go trekking, but there was something about the pristine look of snow on rolling hills that made me just want to listen to the silence this time.

The first footprints I found were the delicate, wispy tracings of a single, tiny bird. If I hadn’t been looking, I would have traipsed right through them.

Then there was a curious imprint at the edge of the path where a rabbit had been sitting

. . . and a double set of bunny tracks . . .

that merged with deer tracks and hopped up the path into the snowy brush.

It was so peaceful to walk in the winter woods alone. The only sound was the smooshing scrunch of my muffled boot-steps. Blues and whites of the snowy forest floor melted into pastel browns and grays as the bare-limbed canopy filtered the sun’s warming rays onto muted patches of shade and shadow. Everything felt calm. Uncomplicated. There was such unembellished elegance to the stark beauty there.

Then something the Lord said in His famous Sermon on the Mount drifted into my mind:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Pure.
Like the clean, white snow.
Fresh.
Like a cold winter day.

I looked down and saw my own footprint in the snow.

I had walked these wooded trails many times, in every season.
The smell of honesuckle and wildflower blooms is nearly intoxicating in the spring.
The blackberries picked on humid summer afternoons are juicy and tart.
The brilliant orange-golds of autumn oaks and maples paint a stunning fall canvas.
And the brown, leaf-scattered path of winter’s simplicity makes a rich, musty carpet for brisk winter hikes.
Every season is beautiful in my Kirkhaven woods.

But only a snowy pathway clearly shows footprints.

Blessed are the pure in heart . . .
like fresh, white snow . . .
so that His every footfall,
His every touch,
His every Word,
even His every whisper and sigh
leaves it’s perfect imprint there.

I thought about my own heart and all the different states it had been in:
Proud.
Angry.
Critical.
Doubting.
Fearful.

Broken.

Far too noisy to hear God’s gentle footfalls.
Far too cluttered to see the prints He had left.

I knew that God loved me just the way I was..
And I knew that He often met me at the place of my greatest weakness.
I remembered how He even used an imperfect vessel to accomplish His perfect plans.

But blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

So I prayed.

Lord, take my hurting heart . . .
I give it to you again.
I repent of the sin that muddles your perfect Truth.
I want to be changed.
Touch me . . .
and leave your handprint there.

A pure heart is less than a perfect heart.
But it is more than fully forgiven.

A pure heart is cleaned . . .
and quieted . . .
and waiting . . .
for the footstep
and the touch
and the voice
of God.

Because to see Him
and to bear His likeness
is what really matters.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Matt 5:8