Muddy Shoes

Posted by S on Sep 20, 2012 in Echo of the Day, S Posts | 10 comments

Shploock. Shlup.  I cringe just a little as the mud closes over the top of my shoe.  It is a slightly delicious, and slightly disgusting, noise as I pull my foot out for my next step.  I try not to guesstimate the varieties of bacteria and feces mixed in there, so I look up and around. The rain that leaves the ground soggy and saturated also leaves the pastures and the air green and thick.  It is stunning.  And it is muddy.

The mud is unavoidable.  From a distance it is not obvious, blending in with the grass and contours.  But once you are even just steps onto a Lake District footpath, you know that anyone who has ever warned you that the Lakes can be muddy wasn’t joking.  There is no way around — there is only through. If you are Out There, you are In It. It’s not a big leap to consider the goo of the world, the runoff, the leftovers, the byproduct of a well-worn path.  The mud of conflict, mistrust, a hurtful word, cancer, my pride, a strained relationship.

There is a small temptation to stick to the road, to the pavement and gravel of easy walking on the higher road.  It is safe there — mapped out, smooth terrain, and pretty scenic too.  But to try to avoid the mud would be at great cost of missing such richness!  The view from over the fence is only a fraction of the depth in color, sound, smell — not to mention the difference in perspective.

And so I find that the best defense against the mud is a good pair of shoes.   Not necessarily expensive or nice shoes — just the kind that don’t mind the mud. Shoes of courage.  Shoes of compassion.  Shoes of forgiveness.  Of humility and grace.  Tie them on tightly so they don’t get sucked off when the world’s muck gets deeper than expected.

The dog walkers, the hikers, the families, the strollers, and I — we are all out here slogging through the mud together, no one is immune.  I look longingly at the tall rubber wellie boots others wear passing by, thinking those would really solve my problems.  But my stay here in the Lakes is short, and my long term needs are different from theirs.  I try not to compare myself, or my shoes, to other people sharing the path.

By the time I get back to our door, my shoes are nearly unrecognizable, but they have shielded my feet beyond what I expected.  I peel them off without untying them and line them up with the others on the porch.

My shoes dry out overnight, and they sit waiting the next day to take me Out There In It.  The cakes of mud fall away easily and the laces are no longer knotted and swollen with water. My shoes are not the same color they used to be, but like the Lord’s mercies, they are new every morning.  They are a visible reminder of God’s daily mercy to me — Creator, Redeemer, Scrubber of My Muddy Shoes.