My father’s shoes….

It’s really odd, the things we remember. As I get older, it seems I remember more and more random things!

It was a normal Saturday evening: Our family was nestled together in our small den to watch television. Dad entered the room carrying his shoeshine kit and big, black leather wingtips. We were all too engrossed in the magic of black and white images that danced on the screen before our eyes to notice what he was doing. Before long the whole room was filled with that wonderful smell of shoe wax, as dad carefully and expertly applied the paste, rubbed it into the well-worn leather, and buffed it to a glassy sheen. When he finished his labor he placed the shoes beside his chair and reclined.

During the next commercial break our family scattered – some to one bathroom or another, some to the kitchen for snacks, some to stretch their legs. One by one we returned to our claimed spots – some on the sofa, a few others on the floor on pillows, the side chair held mom, and dad was still in his recliner. As I walked by his chair I couldn’t resist – I slipped my small, narrow feet into those big, freshly polished shoes. Before long, my siblings’ chuckles became guffaws as I tried my best to walk around the furniture and reclining bodies. Of course, I stumbled and tripped attempting to place one over-laden foot in front of the other. The more my brother and sisters laughed the more determined I became. It wasn’t long before I became frustrated, realizing that I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t walk in dad’s shoes. Ready to give up in discouragement I glanced back at dad. I’ll never forget what I saw. Dad was smiling. Not only his mouth, but his whole face was smiling – even his eyes. Dad had fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say.

I knew the expression on his face was not the result of amusement, but of pride. For some odd reason he was proud of me for trying to walk in his huge shoes, an impossible task for such small feet in such large shoes.

Later that week I asked my dad to teach me how to shine my shoes. It took a few months before I could polish them into a shine. Until then dad would “help me” finish the job, deftly fixing my smudges and dull spots with a quick buff with a brush or cloth. He made it look so easy and effortless. Sometimes he would tell me stories of how his dad taught him to shine shoes. He would tell of the many different ways friends of his used to get just the right type of shine.

I don’t remember my age at the time, but I do remember the feeling I got when dad asked me to polish his shoes for him. I couldn’t believe my ears. He even said he would give me a quarter each week I did the job well! What an incredible complement. I knew the pride he took in his shoes being shined just so for church each Sunday morning. And now he was letting me shine his shoes for him. It was a right of passage for me. It was the passing of a baton. I had reached a huge point of growth.

Shoes were for dad a symbol. Until his later years when he got too sick to talk much, he would repeat the story in my hearing – always in my hearing – about the time he looked down as I was headed out the door for church – and he saw his shoes walking out the door on my feet. Why? Why was that story so important to tell? What did it represent for him? They were just shoes, leather and string, die and wax, expertly formed into quality black, size 9.5, wingtips.

I think, in some odd way, that those shoes made him feel he had succeeded with me. Not only had I grown into a semi-responsible teenager, I still wanted to wear my old man’s shoes. And he was proud.

Tonight I felt similar pride. I took my son with me to our statewide collegiate spring retreat. I was asked to take care of the audio/video for the weekend. Because our newest family member was just born 9 days ago, I only planned to spend one night away from home. The event was to be held at our north Georgia conference center, in the foothills of the Smokies. Nick loves the mountains. So I asked him to come with me – “maybe we can do some hiking,” I told him.

The day had been a long one, going from music store to music store in the attempt to rent the growing list of equipment the event required. By the time we finally left Athens – 3 hours late, Nick was frustrated. He knew we would not get in an afternoon hike. After entertaining himself for several hours while we unloaded and set-up equipment and performed numerous sound checks, he was fairly worn out and hungry. After grabbing some supper, he opted for childcare instead of staying with me in the opening worship service. After the main service was over, I picked him up and took him back to the auditorium with me for the late night praise extravaganza that our praise band was leading. Nick loves music. He loves to sing. Most evenings after supper he disappears to his room, turns on his radio (loud!) and sings along to Christian pop.

As the band began to play and the crowd joined in song I glanced down at Nick – he was on his feet just like the students. He was following the words projected overhead on the huge screens. And he was singing (loud!). Every few minutes I glanced his direction. Each time he was lost in song. Before long, his hands went up as he sang, “to you we lift our hands.” I smiled. Not only my mouth, but my whole face was smiling – even my eyes. I’ve been told that I have eyes like my dad; fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say. The expression on my face was not the result of amusement, but pride.

Seeing my son freely praising God in song – hands lifted high, voice loudly singing, face lifted toward the heavens – is one of the most satisfying, experiences I’ve had as a dad. Somehow in that moment I felt a kinship with my dad. Nick was walking in my shoes – and he looked better than me in them. Raise in traditional Southern Baptist churches, I’ve always felt a bit self conscious about raising my hands when I sing. Oh I’ll sing, and loud. But expressing my faith and my praise with my body is something that is foreign and forced for me. It just doesn’t feel nature. I wish I could do it. I’ve tried. It just isn’t me. I feel I’m doing it more for show than for worship. So I’ve decided that until I can raise my hands in praise of God – and only in praise of God – I won’t do it.

But it seems to me that Nick has learned to praise God better than I do, better than I can. It seems he wears my shoes better than I do, better than I can.

And so I smile. And I remember. It’s really odd the things we remember….

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: (5) and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength. (6) And these words, which I command you today, shall be in your heart: (7) And you shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up.” Deuteronomy 6:4-7