A Metaphor of Repentance

Sledding is interesting. You hop on a piece of plastic and slide down a snow-covered hill for about ten seconds of thrill, and then you make the trek back up. The ride down is exhilarating and exciting, but eventually it comes to an end and you have to make a choice.

Do you sit at the bottom of the hill forever and ever? Or do you get up, sling the sled over your shoulder and make the trek up the hill? They say that what goes up, must come down, but what about things that go down? Must they come back up?

What about in life, i n sin or when mistakes are made. You know you probably shouldn't but it just seems so fun--exhilarating, exciting--but eventually, you hit the bottom. What I've noticed about those who are able to rise above their past and those who can't, is whether they choose to sit at the bottom, or make the climb back up.

It's not easy. It's always easier to slip and let go and not care, but what does it bring you? A memory of a ride downhill and a reminder that you're still at the bottom.

If you choose the hard way, taking it one step at a time, you will find yourself at the top of the hill looking out over the lower ground, seeing your sledding track down the hillside, others at the bottom who also took the ride, and every footstep you took to make it back.

Standing there at the top, you see a snowflake gently fall from the sky. Then another, and another. The sky is full of snowflakes drifting down and you turn your face to meet them. A moment of serenity and peace among the falling flakes and complete quiet. You look down and the hillside is covered in a blanket of fresh, white snow. But wait, where are the sledding tracks? No trace. They've been covered, wiped out, no longer noticeable.

There are, however, still footsteps, but how can that be? Because others are continuously making the journey up the hill and you are there to lend a hand and pull them up the last few feet. There, you stand together looking out over the valley, a perspective from higher ground, a commonness in your struggle,  a companionship in the faith that the journey up the hill was--and always will be--worth it, and a knowledge that snow, pure white snow, will always cover the tracks of those who make the choice to climb the hill.