Last week, I made an ordinary walk to our outdoor garbage can. In my hands, I held a pair of overly worn-out dress shoes. On the surface, there was nothing special about these shoes. As I walked towards the large bin reserved for things no longer considered of value, I was struck by their connection to me.
I remember the day I purchased these shoes at a local shoe store. My new pair must be perfect. As a creature of habit, if I find something I like or, more importantly, something that fits me, I tend to stick with it, creating a long, close relationship. These shoes would be with me for a long, long time.
The first day I wore these shoes was the following Sunday. As I walked on the tile floor at church, I slipped and almost fell, creating excitement for everyone who saw me. “Are you alright, preacher?” “Oh yes,” I said. I’m wearing new shoes. I walked to the parking lot and did my best to scuff up the leather soles to help me with traction as I walked to greet my friends and church family. From that day, few others would notice these simple, nondescript wingtip black Oxford shoes, but they were special to me and reserved for only the special days.
As I dropped these shoes into the can, they hit the bottom of the vacant bin with an echoing thud. The garbage can was empty, and they were the first residents of the can this week. I looked into the can and asked myself, “Am I going to throw these away? These shoes are unique; we’ve been on a long journey together.”
As I turned to return to our home, a streak of emotion hit me; I looked around to see if anyone could see my tear or two. Continuing my solemn walk, I was relieved that only these shoes caught the instant emotion. Once inside, I sat in “my chair” for every Southern gentleman has a chair reserved for him and him alone (except for granddaughters and a grandson who can sit there anytime they want.)
Sitting in my sacred chair, I wondered where the emotion came from because these shoes were old and worn out; their time was finished. I began to reflect on the first Sunday I wore them and the entertainment they brought. Then I thought about the hundreds of sermons God had allowed me to preach wearing these shoes, mostly in my home church, but then I remembered all the places these shoes and I had journeyed together. These shoes have traveled with me to Russia, Poland, Moldova, Ireland, Jamaica, Haiti, India, and other places. They had traveled the world with me.
I have worn these shoes in almost every funeral home within one hundred miles and beyond. They were with me as I trekked through mountain cemeteries and backwoods family funeral plots. They were with me in one local cemetery more than one hundred times.
I wore these shoes for the marriage ceremonies for my two precious sons and new daughters along with many other weddings. I wore them at the graveside of my dearest father and father-in-law.
The garbage truck would come and take them away in a few days. It brought a small comfort that I had until Thursday to decide. As I sat, I asked myself, “Are you going to throw these special shoes away?” To add to the misery, whenever I walked outside, I was reminded that my special shoes sat at the bottom of the trash can and awaited their fate. I didn’t mention that once I removed these shoes from our closet, I placed them in the corner of our bedroom, where they rested for weeks. (After many years together, my sweet wife was aware of the slow journey of releasing anything special to me, so she let them sit.)
Thursday came and went; I heard the garbage truck load our cans and drive away. The decision was final, or was it? The truck was not far away, and I knew I could find my friends now missed with all the other special things others had thrown away.
At that moment, I realized they were gone, never to be seen again. The decision I made could not be reversed. Is it normal to think so much about an old pair of shoes? I told my wife of the struggle during the last few days. Life has taught me that I can only talk to two: God and my partner for life. She sweetly reaffirmed that I was somewhat sane and that my feelings were normal.
A few days before my friends would leave, I traveled to a local shoe store looking for a particular pair of shoes. Maybe I could find some just like my old friends, but they were not to be found. The new shoes looked similar but would always be different from my old friends. My old friends wore the scars of our friendship, of our long journey together. As I write, I think, “Where could my old friends be?”
But what of my new friends? Where will we travel together? What story will they have to tell? Hello, my new friends. We have some places to go…
Dirt Road Diaries 