Soulful Soles

Sunlight gleams through a dusty, frost covered window of the front porch to the once white house. Twin cement flower pots disrupt the entering light, one cracked and spilling its contents, the other as if recently new. The same soil within these pots sits on the soles of the boots just inside the house within the ray of sun, boots completely unaware of the significance of this spring morning, their light-colored leather dry from misuse. They are the kind of inexpensive shoes that are still well made, boots made for rough outdoor work with strong laces and thick soles. Only a month had passed since their owner last wore them, but their sad appearance would suggest longer.

The shoes longed to be filled again, to wander around on damp soil after a night of light rain and sink ever so slightly into the earth with each step- a feeling their owner had once relished as he walked to retrieve his morning newspaper. But the boots would never again feel that same warmth of their owner again, nor that distinct shape of foot imprinted into their fabric insides. Never again would the left boot complained to the right of the extra pressure exerted onto it from the old man’s limp which accompanied his usual shuffling steps. These shoes knew best what had brought their old man happiness, which things gave him sorrow, the places he loved most to wander, but now they lay forgotten inside the house which had once been his. Shiny black loafers were the last shoes the man would wear, though they did not know him as the boots did, as they were better suited for a well-dressed farewell.

If the boots had known they would never see the man again, they would not have changed anything.  Every peaceful morning stroll past the corn fields to cross the old stone bridge they would happily repeat, sometimes dangling off the side and reflecting back from the soft current of water below as the man would listen to the trickling water and birds singing.  Days of dirt being carelessly dropped upon them as the man tended his personal garden were priceless experiences.  Noisy restless days when the man’s family came to visit were the ones the boots missed most, with the young granddaughter standing upon them so they could help her dance.

Feeling forgotten, they laid in the sun while a small crack beneath the door allowed the refreshing breeze to visit.  They were expecting a day just like all days of reminiscing the past month, barely daring to believe when the door opened and fresh light rushed through the room.  Tiny little feet in pink sandals walked toward them and gave them a warmth greater than that from the sun.  They expected nothing; they were no longer capable of dancing with her without the man.  But they felt something strange, a pressure inside, barely noticeable and softer than what that had become used to carrying.  Uneven, small steps carried them outside, to the place they had been most, and finally they felt at peace.

No longer forgotten shoes.



Importance is relevant. Relevant to religion, income level, geographic location, age, occupation, family, education level, but what is important is not the same to everyone. Beliefs, thoughts, emotions, and culture in general terms are always important, but differing and dependent on life relevance.

Even the necessary things to stay alive are not considered equally important to different people. A struggling model would shun food, a basic necessity of valuable nutrients, to consume a diet comprised of tissues and water only. Why? To feel full without gaining weight in order to be even thinner just in hopes of being the next over-glorified clothing hanger. Because obtaining an extremely difficult idealistic beauty is more meaningful to maintain a materialistic job.  A thousand dollar handbag too minuscule to carry a wallet would delight red carpet celebrities and fashion bloggers, while most others would consider such things a silly waste of resources…even if we may secretly desire a similar thing ourselves just for the wonderful feeling of owning a pretty, unnecessary asset.

What is important to someone else may not be important to me, and they have no obligation to consider what i think important to be the same for them. Perhaps occasionally they could give the same consideration and accept that their concerns are not universal and should not be thrust upon everyone in reach.

If planning to knock on the door asking “have you heard the good news” in order to talk about Jesus Christ, please carry a plate of cookies- Cookies are always good news.