Footprints on the Beach — the Rest of the Story

My heart was heavy, but I trudged on. My weight was that of Atlas, but I put the next foot forward. My feet sunk deeper the harder I tried, in Sisyphisian torture. And when all was lost, I turned and looked behind me. There were two sets of footprints in the sand.

Renewed with spiritual courage, I resumed in earnest. Looking askew, I noticed there was only one set now as I walked.

I was alone.

And it was hard. There was no one carrying me. Each inch was as painful as Prometheus' liver. Each stride was as if fouled by harpies.

Where were the other footsteps? Why was I left alone to carry my own weight?

I began to run, as if in a race, but it was a foot chase. After all, my companion, my savior, had either dropped far behind me or has jumped ahead, hurtling past unspoiled beach.

My pain of Prometheus was from foresight. So I stepped it up, and then laughed at the pun. Or was it the endorphins kicking in. I raced as fast as possible. I would catch up to my savior and ask him, WTF?

I jumped over driftwood. I flew over seaweed. I skipped over the beached whale. Then I stopped. I regarded the beached whale. It side-eyed me, then squirmed its way backward and was at see within a moment. It issued out a spray from its blowhole as I did the same from my own.

I saw that the whale had left a grand indentation in the sound from its errant drive onto dry land and its retreat back into the life-giving waters. And next to its indentation was another. This whale, like me, had a savior who was much too busy for me, apparently.

You can call me Job. And that, as they say, is the rest of the story. So pray for me.