It
was six years since I’d seen my parents, and nine years since I’d been back to
Africa, but the first thing I noticed was my mother’s sandals. They were
tired-looking, colour peeling from the uppers, soles worn. As the days rolled
past, I noticed she wore these shoes all the time and eventually she apologised
for their condition and told me why. “I got them in New Zealand when we last visited
you and I keep wearing them because they’re comfortable. The only other pair I
have hurt my feet.”
The
niggle at the back of my mind developed into a fully formed thought. “Give her
a pair of your sandals.” I sat in my room that night and looked at the shoes I’d
brought with me: black leather sandals that were okay but old, white leather
sandals with flowers and thin straps, and my gold sandals. The gold ones were almost new, a
$29 special from K-Mart, with soft synthetic uppers, cushioned soles, Velcro fastening,
and good support. Perfect for 80 year old feet in fact. They weren’t fuddy
duddy by any means but didn’t fit the designer bracket either. I need them, I
rationalised to myself. I spend hours on my feet and need comfortable shoes,
besides, they were cheap and they’re not even leather. They might not last
well. I can’t give them to her. I ignored the fact that I had a cupboard full
of shoes at home.
The
next day, the niggle was stronger and I decided I would try and find Mom a pair of Gold Sandals when I got home. First of all though, I needed to see what size she would need.
In past years, she’d always worn a size bigger than I did. I took the sandals off,
explaining my idea, and she eagerly slipped her feet into them.
It
was like Cinderella trying on the glass slippers: they fitted perfectly.
“I’ll
send Chantelle (my daughter) a message and get her to look for some,” I said, fastening them
back onto my feet. The problem was, I knew the Christchurch stores did not have
the sandals in stock, and I had bought mine in Nelson, a five hour drive from home.
That
night, when I returned to my room on the other side of retirement complex, my
heart hung heavy in my chest. I knew I was being selfish but as I sat on the
bed, God spoke clearly into the silence. “You do know they weren’t yours to
begin with.”
“What weren't?”
I said.
“The
shoes. I had them in mind for my daughter, your mother. I used you as a
messenger to find them, get the right size and deliver them.”
Oh
the shame I felt. I realised it wasn’t about the money, but rather the fact
that I thought they were irreplaceable. That I wouldn’t be able to get another pair. The issue wasn’t the sandals. It was my heart. It was almost Christmas,
the time when we remember how much God gave us, and yet I was too mean to give
my own mother a pair of sandals.
The
next morning I put my old shoes on and carried the gold ones across to my
parents’ home. “They’re yours,” I said, laying them on the carpet in front of
her.
It
was as though a light had turned on inside of her. “For me? Are you sure? I’ll
pay you for them.”
“No,
they’re a gift,” I replied, and they were. I was no longer attached to them. I’d
realised that God was at work and that His ways were and are so much better
than ours.
Her
smile grew even wider. “Can I wear them to church?”
“Of
course you can!” I replied.
Mom
wore those sandals every day for the rest of my visit and remarked frequently
how comfortable they were and how nice they looked on her feet. I knew it was
because the Creator of the Universe had chosen them for her and He had organised
the size, colour, style and fit.
But
the story doesn’t end there. It turned out that I had to travel to Nelson a few
days after my return to New Zealand and one of the clients I visited, was in
Richmond Mall. The K-Mart I bought the gold sandals from was across the car
park from the mall and I had a few minutes to spare. I looked at the shop,
wondering if it would be acceptable to my Heavenly Father to go and have a look.
“Are you happy for me to go to K-Mart?” I asked Him? Peace welled up inside, so
I hurried over and headed to the shoe department.
I
saw them straight away, a pair of gold sandals, size seven, hanging on a hook. What
was more, they had been marked down to $12. I slipped them onto my feet, relishing
the familiar feel and cushioned support. And then I saw they were available in
black as well. I walked out with two pairs of shoes and a heart full of joy.
What
a fine example of God’s grace. God doesn’t take away from us to hurt us. He
teaches us to hold things loosely and then He is free to bless us in greater measure.
I treasure my gold sandals as they’re more than just a pair of shoes to me. Each time
I fasten them on I’m reminded of God’s grace and love, and that He’s interested
in every aspect of our lives. Even in cheap gold sandals with synthetic uppers,
cushioned soles, Velcro fastening, and good support.
