JOGGING IN THE SNOW
I was jogging in the park just after sunrise this morning. Two inches of fresh snow had fallen overnight. The snow on the park drive was untrammeled, pristine white. The air was very cold and the snow dry, so I could jog in it so long as I was slow and careful and watched how I placed my weight.
My jog starts at the City pool and goes one mile out to the golf course, following around the north side of the park lake, through woods and fields. At the golf course, I turn and come back. As I jog, I ponder my day. I speak with the Lord about what I would like to accomplish in my future. I speak with Him about my family and any issues that are troubling. I always ask to have Satan put behind me for this day so that my outlook is clear with no interference from the evil one.
I jogged along, leaving fresh tracks in this road. Tracks that wandered back and forth between the plowed up snow banks on either side, according to the whims of the surface slopes, sometimes stumbling a little in rough areas, but always forging ahead. Halfway to the golf course I started thinking I would enjoy jogging back and observing my own tracks from the past. I could follow them; step in the same places, perhaps avoiding the rough areas. The snow would no longer be pristine, but the tracks were mine and would be familiar.
Then I heard the rumble. Looking back, I saw the Park Department snowplough coming. I moved over, letting it past. The snow behind me was swished off the road to join the ever growing bank on the side. Now I could follow the plough and the going was much easier. I speeded up, easily avoiding rough areas. Not slipping now. Of course, my untrammeled future was gone. The plough was helpfully leading the way. I rather liked the untrammeled snow, even if the going was harder.
Soon, the plough went around the cul-de-sac at the golf course and passed me going the other way, and I followed. My tracks were gone. The road was clear. I could not go back to see where I had tread. No, this is not quite true. In some places I could make out the ghosts of my tracks where I had pressed the snow down and the plough had skimmed over, but I could not go back jogging the same path to my beginning. That path was in the past and gone forever. Just ghosts of memory left on the road.
So life that morning was made easier, but the anticipation of treading through the pristine snow was gone, and there was no going back.
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