Playing Footsie
August 14, 2009
I have a theory about feet. It comes from the observation that everyone I know over the age of sixty complains about how much their feet hurt until they break down and buy a pair of those ghastly comfortable shoes. Eventually we take smaller and smaller steps, metering out foot usage like bites of our favorite desert to our kids.
We were born for a perfect world where each step taken was on cushioned grass fields with no rocks. Sin created a world of gravel roads and now we wear our feet out in half of our lives… if we were careful.
I abused my feet. I went barefoot in places where work boots should have been the fare. I played sports, hurt, at a time when athletic trainers wrapped your aches up with thick white tape until your feet went numb. Sweet unfeeling bliss.
Have you ever looked at a baby’s unused soles. They are wonderfully padded. It looks like they could get eighty years out of those soft fleshy pads… on a perfect lawn. I was thinking that I wanted my baby feet back tonight. Mine are all worn out and hard, like the pillow that you sleep on two years too long. Forget that a new one costs about ten dollars. I’ve kept mine too long. I’ve logged too many miles and nobody wants to rub them.
That’s the life of the spiritual entrepreneur. A little sore from all of the hard miles. I could have led more carefully. I probably would get more mileage if I would be a smidge more tiptoey. But I’m not going to do that. That is the irony of leadership. The type of person needed to charge into the great unknown is… frankly, the type of person dumb enough to charge into the great unknown. They wear out feet.
Our trek at Crossroads Farm counts on two spiritual premises. 1. It would help us get farther if someone could massage our feet from time to time. Even Jesus appreciated the love that it took to oil his tired pedes. 2. I will get a new pair of baby’s feet later. I’ll try the lawn out with them. That’ll be heaven.
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