I have a shoe problem. Actually, I have more than one shoe problem. First, I own too many. The shelves in my closet are a mosh pit for footwear. A dangerous one. If I try to shove one more pair in there, some may perish. And perishing brings me to my second shoe problem. I have a bad habit of blowing out shoes. I wrote about one instance already. And there have been others. But the most recent incident involving the espadrille in the title with no will to live occurred in the church parking lot.
I loved my sky-high (for me) red espadrilles. I felt cute and sassy whenever I wore them. This particular morning I paired them with a blue and white striped jumpsuit and denim shirt. A chunky red necklace tied it all together nicely. We packed our schedule that day – unusual for us on a Sunday. We attended church at 11, followed by lunch at a neighboring Italian restaurant with several dear members of my husband’s family. Then I had just enough time to scoot back to the church to hear a guest speaker at 2:oo on a subject that interested me greatly.
We breezed through a great church service, and I’m guessing you know what happened on the way to the car. I stepped right off of the shoe’s bottom, my foot retaining only the footbed and the sandal’s upper (I had to google the names of those shoe parts).
I came to a complete halt in the parking lot and looked back at the supportive structure of the shoe on the asphalt behind me.
What’s a Girl to Do With Her Dead Shoe?
A table full of family already waited for us to dine. So I did the uneven hobble of one high heel and one flat all the way to my car. In the privacy of my vehicle, I ripped the bottom from the other shoe, no easy feet, and prayed this would work. I drove to the restaurant, placed the altered “shoes” on my feet and went to lunch.
When I told my sister-in-law and niece about the espadrille with no will to live, they examined my feet and sweetly declared that they could not tell I had performed shoe surgery just moments before. But I could tell. Only an insignificantly thin layer of pleather (if you weren’t already tipped off these were very cheap shoes) separated my foot from the ground.
Since they looked okay, I went back over to the church to hear the guest lecturer. Being a storyteller, I couldn’t resist regaling a couple of friends with my footwear foibles. No one discerned the problem until I showed them the bottom of the “shoe”.
Later that afternoon I made it home to give my red espadrilles a proper trashcan funeral. I’m grateful that all of my post-blowout commitments were seated affairs. My 47 year old hooves might not have recovered if my agenda included much walking or standing. Those unsupported posers may have still looked like shoes, but they most certainly were not. I needed a hard sole and some cushion.
The Moral of the Espadrille That Lost It’s Will to Live
The whole shenanigan put me in mind of Matthew 23:27. “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.” In the Bible, those letters are red.
Jesus called out some leaders of His day who cared more about looking good to those around them than doing good or having a good heart. Oh, I don’t want to be a whitewashed tomb or a ripped up shoe! While I’m not intentionally hypocritical, I do think I care way too much about what others think. To the detriment of my authenticity.
Father, make my insides look like You. And may that be reflected on my outsides.
The Link Up
For this week’s post I chose Rookie Alert: I’m Off to Practice Rest. I love that Jerralea is “practicing rest”. Since the word rest is my focus for the year, I appreciated the perspective in this short and sweet piece.
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