I went barefoot by choice and with pleasure around our home and grassy farm much of the time as a youngling, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t and don’t have a delight for shoes. Well made shoes, apart from being attractive, are a meaningful article of clothing. They not only protect our skin, they carry us to our destinations and hold us while we grow relationships with other people.
I have a tradition of burying my travel-worn shoes in far off places. The superstitious hope is that if I leave a piece of me, I’ll come back one day. It’s similar to throwing pennies in the Trevi Fountain.
Speaking of that boot-shaped country, when you leave your sneakers in Italy, it gives you suitcase space for one more bottle of Imagredi wine. I still have that one more unopened bottle. The grapes were grown and fermented on the outskirts of the little village I lived in as a student, at the foot of the Alps that demarcate the border between Austria and Italy.
The first time I left a shoe somewhere was an accident. I was probably 5. We were staying at a rental house in Maggie Valley with my maternal cousins. Occasionally our parents would walk us to the nearby river to play, to swim. In the midst of my romping about, one of my shoes—a fruit-print, strappy, German Birkenstock slider with a green rubber platform—slipped off and floated away down the river.
Streams to the river, river to the sea.
Shoes don’t have to be lost or left to be remembered. On Easter Sundays as a little girl, I always put on what were called “fisherman sandals”—or what I prefered to call, a little proudly and indignantly, my “fisherwoman sandals.” They were made of white leather, maybe faux I don’t know, and so strappy that they were almost close-toed and close-heeled. I liked wearing them to church. For some reason, when I wore those shoes as a 6 year old, I felt more connected to Jesus’ first disciples, who were fishermen, and the call to be “fishers of men;” in other words, to share the good news of Jesus with others.
I tell you, shoes are powerful things. As a very young kid, this particular pair functioned as a symbol that drew me to the very heart of the gospel.
I converted to Christianity before I needed two hands to count my age on my fingers, but as any Christian knows, there are times when you are practicing the disciplines of your faith more than others.
I moved to a new culture, got married and adopted 3 sons in the same instant. Since then I’ve struggled to find a new rhythm in my practices of prayer and reading Scripture. Never have they been left in the dust, but the consistency of my single college years is a thing of the past.
The Bible is a big book. For several months I’ve found myself not knowing where or how to begin again. As someone who is familiar with the Bible and the many different reading plans, this was never a problem I thought I would have. But here I am.
Then a week or so ago a friend posted a video to Facebook in which he gave a brief overview of the Bible and its historical and spiritual context, and how the Bible has encouraged Him through the years. He encouraged his viewers to pick the Bible up and, if they were unfamiliar with the Scriptures, to start in the Gospel of John.
When I heard that, I suddenly felt inspired. It was as if I’d been away from the Scriptures for too long and needed to start fresh, like a person approaching the Bible for the first time.
Every day since then, reading John has been like finding life. But there is one line that has resonated through my head over and over again this week. They are the first words of Jesus that are recorded by the apostle in the opening of the book:
“What are you seeking?” Jesus is asking it of two men who have approached him.
What are you seeking?
As the book of John comes to a close, Jesus asks the question again, this time of Mary Magdalene: “Whom are you seeking?”
The same question is at the beginning and end of the book. It’s accordingly what I’ve been asking myself.
What am I seeking?
Who am I seeking?
I put on my shoes and walked out the door—for what?
To seek Jesus, the person, the God.
And I’ve found Him.*
Have you found Him?
_______________________
*Yet I continue to seek Him.
No comments:
Post a Comment