New Shoes

My old shoes were worn, weathered, broken in.  The blisters had long since healed and rough callus skin replaced them.  I was protected, my feet could carry me miles.  But now?  With these new shoes, new shoes that were so beautiful and clean, through the window I saw them - a place I could never afford or even step dirty sinful foot in.  Yet there the door was open, the beckoning called; and so scuffed, tattered, torn and weary I drifted in to look at the perfect pretty shoes.  "I can't try these on sir" I say to the old gentleman holding a box of my size as if he knew me, as if I had been here countless times before, "My feet will dirty them."  He smiled, he bent down with a towel and with a pitcher of water wiped my feet clean.  My pale skin underneath the caked dirt and dust of life was so much lighter than I remembered it being.  The shoes slide gracefully on my feet, but before I can finish admiring them the man is gone and so are my old shoes.  I am alone and so I leave with my pretty new shoes. 

But now you ask?  But what about the shoes?  The blisters I once thought healed are ripped wide open, the clear liquid that was once held back by fragile skin breaks through and stains the shoes, it burns with every step.  My feet ache, the road is long.  My old shoes would have been perfectly fine, these new ones that I once loved so much must be the wrong shoes.  The only others on the traveling road with these new shoes are people like me, covered in dust and rags, our hair strewn across our faces in dirt covered wisps.  We are not the beautiful ones in large caravans with glistening jewels and silk fabrics.  We are walking, one burning painful step at a time.  

I take my shoes off and walk barefoot for awhile on this road, shoving my new shoes haphazardly in my pack so no one can see them.  They have brought me no comfort on the road, or on dark nights when my feet are too cold and weary.  He tricked me, that old man, and how could I think that clean feet were the answers.  The dust and dirt protected me far longer than anything that man gave me.  I am jealous of my friends with their comfortable and worn shoes, the same shoes I used to wear.  The shoes that fit in, that wandered the road well, the lead me to cozy places.  Those shoes made it easy to make new friends along the road of travelers, faces always changing, home always just the next place to put head to pillow.

The ground in the afternoon scorches, I can get by barefoot in the morning, but I curse my new shoes - which are mostly just extra weight and burden in my pack - as I put them on.  The burning of fresh blisters is slightly less intense than the sizzle of skin on the bare earth.  The tears of pain slide down my cheeks and fall to my feet, the salty water mixing with sweat and the clearness of raw skin seeping.  That white beautiful skin I saw in the shop still there, under all the disdain and anger and loneliness.  The cloth I use to wipe away the tears of frustration and bitterness is wet enough by now that I stoop down and begin wiping my feet.  Cleaning my shoes like they were new again. 

I sit in the dust and wipe my shoes clean, "Have mercy on me" I half ask half beg.  "Bring me some peace for the road" I plead through tears stinging more than the raw skin around my feet.  I hear the garage door open, The Husband stands in the door way, his huge rucksack still on his back.  He asks for help with his boots, and I think seriously can't you see, can't you see my tears, my shoes hurt my feet are tired....he walks in, never setting down his ruck.  As he passes I see his boots, dirty and scuffed, blood stains through the back.  We peel his boots off one by one, his socks bloody.  I tell him he should have stopped sooner, he looks at me and says, "but then they will always be new and will do me no good on the battlefield."  

His bloodstained boots sit next to my shoes, the shoes I do not know quite how to wear yet, shoes that are mine - made specifically for me and only me.  Two sinners making their way on this road, a road of battles as real as piercing bullets and long separations, a road of battles as real as Satan's army, constantly out to catch us without our shoes on.  The boots broken and shoes worn in, stained with the mark of dedication and hard work, sacrifice and vigilance, we walk on, him carrying the weight of his ruck - our God, his family, the country's weight...and I carry my bundle, not knowing where it will be born let alone if there will be a nursery in time.  She is with me, she knows my heart.  She has been here in so many ways.  I wonder what her shoes were like.

 

Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.  Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Holy Mary, mother of God, pray of us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.