It started like any other Sunday morning at church. I arrived a bit early, checked in on some projects our Welcome Team was working on, then headed down the hall to grab an extension cord. On my way back, I noticed what looked like tiny clumps of black rubber scattered along the floor. I made a mental note to pick them up later.
After delivering the cord, I took a different route toward the narthex. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my foot. I looked back and saw a trail of those black clumps behind me—some were the size of dimes. Assuming I had stepped on one of the pieces, I glanced around, puzzled as to why our normally spotless church had this mysterious debris. I started picking up the pieces as I backtracked.
As I continued walking, my ankle twisted. Was something wrong with my shoe? I looked down and discovered that the chunks of black rubber I’d been seeing everywhere were from my shoes disintegrating beneath me.
In my rush that morning, I had grabbed a favorite pair of sandals from a tote in the back of my closet. I had been thrilled to find my “old friends,” comfortable slip-ons that I hadn’t worn in ages. Clearly, those shoes had been sitting in the closet for far too long.
I stopped at the tech desk to discuss a mutual project and then chatted with a new volunteer. As I stood there, my shoes continued to fall apart with every slight movement. By now it looked as if I had dragged in a black sand beach, with chunks of rubber quickly piling up on the floor.
I was utterly humiliated. That pretty much summed up my state of mind for the past couple weeks—a complete lack of self-confidence. As we discussed the impossibility of running a vacuum in the sanctuary until after the service, I kept picking up the pieces of my soles. But there was still a mess left behind. The tech team helped by using duct tape to begin a noiseless cleanup.
In that moment, I realized how the smallest acts of kindness can have the most profound impact.
Then it hit me—I was scheduled to serve communion. I wondered aloud about my options. Should I wear my crumbling shoes to the altar, leaving a trail of sole pieces behind me, or should I go barefoot? The group suggested that since Jesus often went barefoot, maybe I could do the same.
Then the volunteer, whom I barely knew, turned to me and said, “Wear my shoes. I think they’ll fit.” Even as I protested, she undid the straps on her sandals and handed them to me with a grin.
It felt profoundly like something Jesus would do.
I took a seat in the front pew as the service began. The second reading was from James 1:17-27. Verse 17 explains, “Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” How appropriate!
That morning the pastor delivered a heartfelt sermon on the difficulty of change and outward goodness. In that moment, I realized how the smallest acts of kindness can have the most profound impact. It was more than just a pair of shoes—it was a wink from God about grace, a reminder that we are never truly alone in our struggles. The support of a faith community and the willingness to share in someone else’s burden can be the light that guides us through our darker moments.
I was struck by the symbolism of it all. Soles may disintegrate, yet souls can be restored through the love and compassion of those around us. It was a powerful reminder that there’s always someone who can lift us up, offer a hand (or in this case, a shoe) and walk with us on our journey.
