The Shoes we Choose


I used to be much more of a shoe girl. I liked heels. No one ever complains when a girl’s legs look longer and her calf muscles are flexed. And it’s quite thrilling to walk down hard wood floors with a confident gate and hearing the clacks beneath your feet.
But that’s how I used to be because then I moved to a place where I needed my feet and only my feet to get anywhere. It was just strenuous enough to make any heels pointless. (pun intended) So that’s when  I got my first pair of Chacos sandals, which, three years later, I wear persistently weather permitting. I’ve wondered if these had an odometer how high it’d reach now. I’ve had them for a number of hikes, including one 36 km long[1].
In June I started my internship at Calvary Episcopal Church in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s a classy place that makes you think God has quite refined tastes. (God has all tastes, including tacky sometimes, but Episcopalians would never indulge in that.) Tiffany stained-glass windows, intricate wood paneling, brass lecterns. It’s grand. My very first Sunday there, I realized that in my hasty packing for Louisville, the only shoes I brought were the ones on my feet: my Chacos.
Jesus wore Chacos[2]. Which is why now, for 12 Sundays in a row, when I look down my clean white robe with lace detailing and see my dirty Chacos sticking out the bottom, I smile. These shoes will keep me grounded in every sense of the word.

[1] I like to add random points like that to make myself look badass, even if the 36 km thing was a one-time thing. But it was a pretty badass hike.
[2] Or maybe the first century equivalent thereof.


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