Why Shoes Are Important to God

It seems totally irrational to think that the biggest topic of conversation in my household over the past few weeks has been (drum roll)........shoes. In fact, I think the dialogue about shoes has sucked up more air time than potty training and the new porno airport pat downs combined. And I know it's been associated with a lot more tears...as well as some heart-thumping excitement.

Two Fridays ago, I finally broke down and started trying on shoes in my closet. A couple weeks before, I had discovered I couldn't wear my tennis shoes--my feet had either grown or my arch had fallen within the four-month window since I last wore them.

After sending my tennis shoes to a new home, I waited. I intentionally put off the inevitable not because I thought I could avoid this day. As someone with a narrow heel and a hatred of the modern pinched-toe, insanely-high heeled trend in shoes, I simply was afraid of what the damage might be.

As it turns out, I had reason to fear. It was worse than I expected. Twelve pairs of dress flats and heels. Twelve (sigh).

Sure, I inherited several of them from my mother and the rest I purchased on what used to be fabulous Dillards clearance sales...but that's not the point. Until trends change, they're virtually impossible to replace, a fact I know all too well after two weeks of shoe shopping.

When I had counted up the casualties and noted the huge gap where my church shoes used to be, I had a big boo hoo meltdown. The following morning was no better--my husband made a stray remark about a new can of soup I'd bought for him, and I crumpled to the floor, sobs shaking my shoulders as (once again), my children watched in wonder that mommy could cry just like they could.

Before this past week, I can't remember the last time I shopped for shoes for me. And to say that I've had seriously limited success so far is putting it in the best light possible.

But today, God showed me there was hope.

I went to Wal-mart for Thanksgiving day gumbo-fixings and (maybe) some size 11 sandals for Wyatt since in Louisiana, we can wear sandals with socks all winter...a great invention for dirt pile play.

I wasn't too hopeful, but was making a required pass by the shoe department when on an end cap, I saw a whole rack of sandals. And at the top, the sign said "$1." My jaw dropped as I instantly realized God had heard me this morning. And He had provided.

My mom was with me and quickly realized that these would be fantastic to send to the Mexico orphanage her church supports, so we quickly filled her buggy with the remaining 28 pairs of little kid sandals.

Isn't God just so amazing?

I never asked Him to provide Wyatt a pair of shoes. And there in the glow of fluorescent retail lighting, I realized that I've never asked His help, not once, with finding me some shoes.

Why not? Did I think the God who knows every hair on my head wouldn't care about something, anything that concerned me?

My God is the God of shoes. Of rotten pine trees. Of my husband's eyesight. Of the orphan.

And that is comforting beyond belief.