Shoes

I, like many women, love shoes. Unfortunately, I’ve reached a point in my life where comfort matters. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still find cute shoes. My husband doesn’t understand why I have so many, or why I need more. To him, black shoes are black shoes, end of story. (He has one pair.) But to me? The black high-heeled mules go with many of my suits. The Land’s End black sandals have a wonderfully comfy sole and are great to wear with jean shorts in the summer. The black flats with the pewter trim are good for dressing up jeans but still staying comfy, although if I’m going to do a lot of walking I switch to the worn-out black Skechers with Velcro straps. The black and gray slip-ons are kind of quirky; the black sandals with the ankle strap are professional-looking but cool and I can walk miles on the flat 2” heel; and the black sandals with woven straps and wedge heels are great with summer dresses but kill the balls of my feet if I wear them too long. The black Clark’s Mary Janes with the colorful stitching and leather flowers are my most fun (but almost too small) pair. And I haven’t even mentioned the four pairs of black boots — knee-high with spike heels for wearing with certain dresses; ankle-high with pointy toes for certain slacks; casual, cowboy-boot-style for jeans; and warm, soft cable-knit winter boots. My house slippers are even black.
    
In the natural world, I can justify the “need” for a bunch of different pairs — as long as buying them doesn’t take the place of food or paying bills or providing the needs of my family. But in the spiritual realm, I’ve noticed many of us put on shoes that were never meant for our feet. We put on shoes of unbelief; strap on division and strife and disloyalty; walk around with unforgiveness or resentment or untruth or deception or hate. We put on all these shoes, but we really only need one, for the Lord says we must shod our feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace (Ephesians 6:15). We need to let peace carry us through our days — without pain, without blisters, without vanity. The footprints we leave behind should be gentle and unobtrusive, yet distinct and memorable. The shoe may not be what we’re used to wearing, and it may take some time to break it in. But when we put these shoes on, we discover something surprising — there is no longer a need for any other pair. No matter how much we try to justify it. Not even if they’re on sale.

Writing Prompt - "Me Time"

The latest writing prompt from the Gentleman Savant is this: What do you do to give yourself a private moment, a moment of self-reflection, just for you? Do you take in a movie by yourself, or walk the dog in the park, or do you get away from it all with a big chocolate milkshake? How do you take your ‘me time’, as they call it?

Time to oneself is critical. Without it, one cannot rejuvenate, relax, or decipher the events of the world and of life. So I work very hard to find that time. I don't understand all those folks who say they have no time, who think their families or work or other commitments take precedence over their own mental stability. It's really very easy. This is what I do:

Wake up, shower, wake up my girls. Check e-mail and answer a few quickly. Apply styling products, quick application of makeup. Open web browser; go to weather.com to decide what to wear and if my kids need sweatshirts. Looking at my calendar, I quiz the kids on their after-school whereabouts. I make sure my husband is gone to work (he walked out the back door at 7:30, but is he really gone? is his car still out there?). Fix breakfast for my 7-year-old, throwing together a milk-free lunch while it cooks (he's allergic). The kids -- all three of them -- leave for their three respective schools, with their respective start times, backpacks and lunch boxes in hand. (I drive the youngest.) I check my e-mail for the second or third time, make my morning call to my mother, answer a call or two from friends wondering if I want to meet for coffee. (Sometimes I go, and if it's Tuesday, I stop halfway down the driveway and run back in to leave a check and a half-Spanish, half-English note for the cleaning lady.) I frantically finish up the two ads that clients forgot to tell me are due today, and the three urgent requests for revisions to a logo, a poster, and a flyer in multiple formats. I answer a call from a friend asking if I want to meet for lunch at Little Mexico, my favorite restaurant, and before I agree, I call my husband to see what his lunch plans are. Successfully coordinating that and selecting a meeting time of 11:30, I walk into the kitchen. Oops, forgot my daily meds (allergies and rather-early-onset arthritis). Take those, wipe down the kitchen counter. Walk back through the sunroom, turning off the TV and lights left on by the kid, grumbling at the mess they left. Answer six more e-mails from clients and read the latest Gentleman Savant post. Check the other 5 blogs I read regularly. Revise one of the ads again and send high-res version to publication. Respond to the latest "ding" announcing more e-mails. Quit the mail program so I won't be interrupted right away. Lock the front door on the way to the living room couch. Collapse in relief. Take a deep breath, which is interrupted by my husband honking his horn in our driveway since it's already time for lunch -- and bounce back up, totally rejuvenated from the quality time I just spent with myself.

Just ask anyone: Working from home allows you to relax, work in your pajamas, enjoy the silence and find peace. What a great opportunity for a professional who also happens to be a mother. Going into work at an office can be rather stressful, they say. I can see that. What with the time alone in the car during the commute, with no one arguing over radio stations or if someone is touching them. And that whole working-for-eight-hours-without-the-distractions-of-maintaining-a-household? How does one ever focus?

As for me, I find no need to make time for enriching, restoring activities. I get all the peace I could ever want right here at home.

(But when that doesn't work for me, I shut out the world and hole up in my funky, comfortable chair, the one with the big swirl pattern all over it, in the corner of the living room by the enormous front window. I open one of my beautiful journals, and hand-write page after page with blue fine-point Tul gel pen in careful handwriting on the lovely smooth lightly-lined pages, waiting for God to speak, waiting for Him to calm my soul and soothe my spirit and make me whole again. I write to discover what I believe. I think someone much more famous than I said that originally, but I find it to be a monumental, fundamental truth.)

A weed is a weed

I have allergies, I don’t like to get dirty, and I don’t particularly care for the heat. Those are just three of the many reasons why I don’t do much yard work. I love the saturated colors of the flowers gently swaying in the breeze, and the rich perfume that saturates the air, and thick, smooth green grass. I always notice beautiful landscaping elsewhere, but it takes a lot for me to do something about my own yard.

Two of my good friends, knowing this about me, decided to clean up and plant my front flowerbed for my birthday. Unusual purple flowers, cheerful yellow mums, no weeds, and a pretty, multi-colored stone now greet me when I come home. While they were working, I asked about a particular plant that grew straight up out of the ground cover. It was tall and ungainly but had a pretty flower. Was it a weed? Yes, I was told. Anything that grows where you don’t want it, no matter how pretty, is still a weed. It’s not about the plant itself; it’s about whether it belongs where it is.

I’ve been conversing lately with someone who hurt me many years ago. I didn’t realize how much anger and bitterness I harbored in my heart until confronted with it. I realized I needed to let it go, and since I did I’ve been overwhelmed by the feelings of healing and wholeness that replaced the ugliness. Until I found peace, I hadn’t been aware of its absence.

Turns out, although my hatred was there all along, I had mistaken it for something it wasn’t. I’d tried to convince myself that, though it wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t exactly offensive, so it didn’t have to go. I thought that I was doing the right things, acting as a Christian should: loving my friends and family, accepting myself, and being aware of my shortcomings. What I didn’t realize was that among the colorful blessings in my life, sown in the midst of the daylilies and irises and roses, was a big old honkin’ weed. Somehow, gently and quickly, God has pulled the hatred out of my heart, removed that bitter root and replanted. Now that ugly weed is no longer choking out the things that are supposed to grow there. All of the sunlight and nourishment I am given will be used to cultivate something beautiful.

I can’t wait to see my garden when it’s full-grown.