The Shoeshine Kit

I called Natalie and Nick to the floor of my bedroom: it was time for their first shoeshine lesson. In one hand, I held an old sheet of newspaper; in the other , the well-worn shoeshine kit. As I laid everything out on the floor and carefully opened the box, I could sense their excitement – this was something new and almost holy. I think they also felt my awe in teaching them something so menial and yet, somehow so spiritual. The smell of shoe wax wafted from the opened cedar box – a breeze of days long past and almost forgotten.

I sent Natalie to my closet for my black dress shoes. When she returned I began placing the contents of the kit on the newspaper – the large brush came first followed by the two smaller ones, one with soft bristles stained brown the other black. “Can I try?” they both asked, each picking up a brush and gently rubbing it against their soft skin. Memories shimmered in my mind and I paused to savor each one.

The well-stained buffing cloths came out next; each one bearing earth tone smudges of shoes shined to mirror brightness. Natalie picked up an old stained toothbrush, a question unspoken on her lips. I answered her quizzical look with an explanation and a demonstration. Closing the box and latching the lock, I asked her to place and hold a shoe on the stand affixed atop of the lid. I opened the newly purchased canister of shoe polish, gently brushed the surface of the paste, leaving swirled scars in the shiny black surface. “That smells good,” one of them said. I applied the paste to the scuffed black dress shoe in small circles, dulling the shine. I want to try, Natalie said, reaching for the brush. I held the shoe in place for her and guided her hands, teaching the swirling motion – gentle, soft swirls all along the surface of the shoe.

When we finished, Nick wanted to try a buffing brush. I asked him to choose the softest brush. Using the larger brush, I demonstrated the proper technique and quickly brought the dull surface to a shimmering brightness. “Now it’s your turn,” I said, passing the shoe to him. Half of his arm was swallowed by the large shoe as he tried to hold it just as I had done. He carefully, though clumsily, tried to imitate my quick strokes across the shoe surface. After a few misses and a few collisions, he finally got the smooth motion down. He buffed the shine even brighter.

The shoes were finished way too soon. “Let’s do some more,” Natalie exclaimed while skipping back to my closet. “I don’t have any brown polish Nat,” I called after her. “I’ll have to buy some this week.” The old cans in the bottom of the box were dry, hard and useless. Nick picked up a few cans to check the rattle inside.

I tried to explain to them the significance that my childhood experience of shining shoes with my dad now meant to me. I do not think they caught the depth of meaning it had for me – in fact I really hadn’t noticed it before until the smell of polish wafted through the room.

The day after Thanksgiving as we were carrying the last bits of luggage and “stuff” to the van mom called, “Nathan, do you want your dad’s shoeshine kit?” “Sure,” I replied, without really thinking about it. She met me in the kitchen, “here it is.” When my hand closed around the worn wooden handle the memories came flooding back bringing with them a sudden wave of grief. I turned and winced, tucking another load of “stuff” under my arms while quickly walking back towards the car, seeking to hide my filling eyes from others in the room.

I knew mom had cleaned out dad’s closet and given away most of his clothes in recent months as she sought to deal with her grief as well as clean up some of the clutter that he had collected over 47 years of marriage. She had even tried to give me some of his newer shirts a month or so back. I didn’t think long about it, “no thanks.” They would have just hung in my closet unworn this season until I eventually gave them to Goodwill or the Potter’s House.

The switch from “going to Macon to see my folks,” to “going to Macon to see mom” has not been so hard to make. Yes, I still tear up at times when looking at his picture in my office – he too was a campus minister. The shot I have is of him at his desk, deep in conversation with someone unseen. I miss him most when I want to share a new discovery or success in ministry. I want to give him a call when I have a problem and I need a wise, sympathetic ear. My grief has come in small ripples. It has not yet – if it ever will – flooded over me, drowning me in sorrow or immobilizing pain.

Nevertheless, the shoeshine kit affected me with a warm grief, a good grief – not the cold, lonely kind. The box not only holds the tools to make scuffed shoes look great, but memories of a joyous childhood, sitting on the floor with dad on Saturday evenings, shining our shoes for church the next day.

Over the past 5 months, I have thought about dad a great deal. I’ve tried to recall both good times and bad. I have tried to remember the lessons he taught me as his oldest son, lessons I never want to forget. In these months, I have also tried to remember his words and actions that as a dad I do not want to repeat with my children. Many of those words I only remember as they come out of my mouth!

I hope to make memories with my kids that are lasting. I hope that many of the experiences we share, great and small, will be indelibly marked in their minds by something as simple and yet profound as the smell of shoe polish. I hope they will learn lessons from me that I learned from dad – no matter how scuffed up life makes us, we can always be polished and made fresh again. Moreover, often the scars, though painful at the time are the very things that give us character and strength. It is often not what happens to us that matters most, but what we do with what happens to us that really matters. I want to learn from dad’s life. I want to remember.

I think I will be polishing my shoes a bit more now – whether or not they need shining!