By: Payton M. Ishmael
It’s no secret that I have a very unhealthy obsession with footwear. I’m no discriminator of style either. Wedges, stilletos, flats, and sandals are made to feel right at home in their very own designated space within my closet. I like to wear boots to the rodeo, heels to dinner, and my worn out tennis shoes to run. They all have a place, a purpose, and have seen different terrains and environments.
Unfortunately, although the distinct personality of each pair is gladly accepted, I’ve noticed lately that all the people in my path are not so warmly greeted. The habits of some of the people I see daily flabbergast me and I wonder what makes them tick or if they’re ticking at all. I get bent all out of shape that a child’s parent can’t find the time to sign and send back a report card, but is quick to write a letter complaining about a daily grade. The patients at the doctor’s office won’t make their children behave, I would be spanking behinds. And why oh why must my students neglect their responsibilities!
And so this week as I complained about these people, my mind kept jumping to their shoes. Even for a very shoe-minded person, I was starting to convince myself I had gone crazy. I don’t mean crazy as in silly, I’m referring to the diagnosis of crazy by a medical doctor. I mean, I don’t know anything about the soles of the people I complain so quickly about…
Then I realized maybe I wasn’t so loony after all. Maybe their soles were brought to my attention so that I would consider their souls. You see, I don’t know where their feet have trod, nor what their hearts have endured. I don’t know what mountains they’ve climbed, not anything about the burdens they must carry. And so, as I continue each step in preferably red patent leather pumps, I will be slow to judge and patient to assume when approaching those in my path. In fact, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to walk a mile in their shoes.
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