Posted by: pendrops | May 4, 2008

remember sandals

remember sandals
Woosh. I feel the whip and wind of life rushing through my mind, beating on my heart. I seem not able to find a soundless street these days, some corner I can duck around, a refuge to get out of its relentless path. At least not easily.

It’s a battle for me, I am finding, to dodge the debris anxiety picks up in her cyclone and throws my direction. There is a constant eye out for hailstones thrown by my own Type-A-ness, a tendency that keeps me perpetually keyed-up. There is a ready guardedness I must employ as I step out into a hungry, hurting, hating society.

But today, as I sit in a locally-owned café near my home, sipping herbal tea whispering to me about the perfume of rosehips, chamomile and peppermint, I am as close to quiet as I’ve been in a few weeks. And as I listen to my heart slow its beat, I glance at my worn Birkenstock knock-offs and hear my soul say, “Don’t forget.” So I remember. I remember sandals.

I got these sandals, the sandals I’m wearing this very minute, exactly 15 years ago, which means I’ve lived more than half my life in them. That was also the week I decided to live out my belief in Jesus in a tangible way. I had believed on Jesus at age four, believed with that real and simple child-like faith that I invite into my life like a dear old friend again and again. But that rainy spring in 1993, sometimes stirred me, moved me, and called me beyond a child’s trust.

I answered “Yes” that May day as I read over and again Paul’s letter to Roman folk. “Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, on the one hand I myself with my mind am serving the law of God, but on the other, with my flesh the law of sin. Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

I fed on those sustaining words in the early days of my heart’s transformation, eating them the way Ezekiel ate his God-breathed scroll. I feed on them now, in the midst of velocity and volume, always in need of the truth about my desperate lack and Christ’s infinite sufficiency, His “being-here-for-us” as Eugene Peterson puts it.

So here I am, so many miles down this journey’s road, more than half my life captured by this love, this life, this relentless Saviour. So many steps taken in these trusty sandals.

But it’s hard to cease, stop, breathe, remember. When so much outside and inside is thrusting me forward, throwing me ahead. It’s hard to bring to mind a May afternoon, where a 14-year-old girl shut herself up in her yellow bedroom and scribbled in a pink Precious Moments journal that she wanted to become more like Christ with every atom of her being. That she couldn’t live small anymore. That she was strapping on new leathery sandals for a journey that promised finally, someday, to find her on the true side of things where remembering and breathing and living will occur as intended. And the only woosh will be the rush of wings before the throne.



  1. I don’t want to live small anymore either girl. Beautiful- the way you captured that-I’ve got chills. 🙂

    Love you, and I’m so glad God decided He wanted you to be a writer (among other things). 🙂


  2. Woah. So, I can’t quite remember how I got to your site- but what. a. blessing!

    Anyway, I read through your stuff tonight and I want to thank you so much for your vulnerability and openness. I made many scribbles in many journals about how much I longed to dedicate my entire being to the Living God. But I haven’t felt those feelings in a long time. And tonight, I felt the pull of Christ, his intense and unwavering love for me pulling me back into obedience. He always LOVES us into obedience, doesn’t he? I never hear the Lord commanding obedience. I only hear him loving me and I can think of nothing else but doing what he asks.

    Thank you. Thank you.

    And, I also have a tattoo in Hebrew! But mine is on my left wrist and says Beloved. I share it with one of my closest friends.

    Nice to “meet” you.

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