Not neatly in a line, singly spaced on a clean beach, waiting for the clichéd response. Not theologically twee and comforting, suffering castrated of its messy, birthing dance steps, but instead, dog’s feet, running through mud, splattering sods everywhere and all about. Paws at full pelt, eyes on the ball, not caring about dirt or the inevitability of B. A. T. H. s to come later but completely alive, here in the now, mastering mucky mindfulness. Sinking only for a moment, splayed across the surface, connected to the earth, but skating across it. Leaving our marks and knowing that when God walks alongside us, his dusty, bleeding feet make tracks beside, before, behind, above and below ours. Not one set of footprints, but seven holy treads, Emmanuel on the way to Emmaus.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016