He crouched there, showing off the features of the brand new, ultra technological, medically perfect running shoes. Not only would these shoes make my running stride ideal, they'd also help just about every other bone in my body.
They were also cute.
I sat on the bench, a bit entranced to be honest, trying to let myself be convinced to buy these podiatric wonders. I need to run, right? I need to be healthy while doing it, right? After all, my tolerance for nearly losing it is diminished after a while. Also, he had a South African accent. And that's just cool.
Common sense won out though. I realized one of the most upscale athletic stores in the city was probably not the wisest place to buy footwear. Or really anything.
Once I put my old shoes back on though, I realized my feet hurt. And they hurt bad. There was only a problem, mind you, after they knew what they were missing. Before, fine. After, lots of pain.
I think sometimes my heart and soul are the same way.
I don't see the ways I'm broken and hurting until they sound in sharp relief to a different situation.
Once I feel that something could be better, that healing could come, it's hard to go back to enduring the sting of sharp edges and cracked borders.
I don't have the perspective to really understand the right questions to ask as I process through what's happened this last stretch of life. Unlike the Shoe Manager, I can't tell what's going on or how to heal just by looking.
What I can do is run hard- broken, painful feet and all- after the One who does know.
I think He'll be ok with my old tennis shoes.
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