Footsteps

Two weeks ago, I was standing on a beach watching the cold Atlantic waves roll onto the shore of Ireland. I was alone, staying at a monastery pondering God and life and all that goes with those moments of contemplation. The beach lulled me into awareness of the passing of time. The sand was ancient, the waves were endless, and off in the distance was an old stone house that was more ruin than home.

I spent a good thirty minutes just standing there before an older gentleman wandered over and pointed toward the house.

“Been there, have ya?” he asked with a thick, rich Irish accent. “The stone of the threshold has a dip worn into it. How many footsteps does it take to wear down a stone like that, I wonder?”

The truth is that no one notices a stone changing. A single footstep accomplishes almost nothing. But years pass. Generations come and go. Neighbors and friends enter for tea and biscuits. It must take countless footsteps to leave such a mark, and I found myself wondering how many individual moments it takes to change a life.

Last week, we visited three stories from Matthew 9: a tax collector receives an invitation, a woman literally reaches for healing, and a young girl is raised back to life. They offer three unique views of Jesus’ mercy, revealing how God moves within ordinary lives and shapes people one moment at a time until something remarkable happens.

We find Matthew sitting at his tax booth when Jesus passes by and says, “Follow me.” Matthew’s response is his first step across a threshold, and he begins an incredible journey. Before Matthew even understands where his road will lead, Jesus sees him and calls him forward. I think many of us can point to moments when God met us in the middle of our regular lives and invited us to step across stones just like that.

Then there is the woman who has suffered for a dozen years. That’s a long time to carry pain and disappointment. I’d imagine that it’s long enough to wonder whether anything will ever change. Yet there must have been a day when she had crossed enough stones that her faith became unshakable. She reaches out believing that even a touch of Christ’s cloak will be enough to heal her. I confess that like that woman, my own trust of God was built upon countless small prayers, quiet hopes, and the ache of perseverance. None of those moments were insignificant to God. 

Finally, Jesus takes the hand of a young girl and tells her to get up. In an instant, life returns where death wanted the last word. Jesus restores her heartbeat, and he restores her future. That story still speaks to us because many of us know what it means to lose sight of hope—to feel unalive. Into those places, Jesus still extends his hand and speaks words of life. The same Jesus who took that young girl by the hand continues to meet each of us and say, “Child, arise.”

I suspect many of us can spot ourselves somewhere among these three stories, but perhaps we only see that we are somewhere in the change—somewhere between the invitation, healing, and restoration. I’m reminded yet again of the old, worn stone at the Irish house. How many years of faithful presence does it take before we notice the transformation God has wrought in us? Like footsteps crossing a threshold, grace leaves its mark little by little until one day we look back and realize we are no longer the same people we once were. All three stories are part of the change: God calls us, heals us, and lifts us into life. Perhaps this week is an invitation to notice that miracle hidden in ordinary time.