On Tuesday, May 28th, I got dressed, giving special care to my footwear. I was working a half day, scheduled to be home at lunchtime for the express purpose of prayer, Scripture, and receiving from the Lord.
I chose the gold sandals. Pretty? Yes, but so uncomfortable.
They had no cushioning, but with only four hours to be logged that morning, I felt good about it.
I would stand in those gold shoes fifteen hours on May 28th.
Those uncushioned soles would carry me into the ER where I waited for news.
I had seen how serious it was – the backyard scene is not one I will soon forget.
I had warned about the rotting wood, the extreme heat, the compromised mobility.
But what good is ruminating on a warning when you are living in its unheeded reality?
The gold shoes took me into a consult room where I knew – this is it. This is the end.
The shoes walked me to a bedside with cords and monitors, whirring and beeping and ropes of tubing keeping a body alive. I had to search for some flesh that wasn’t bandaged or bloody to make contact.
Make contact.
Speak.
Be present.
Be present for a man who, a year and a half earlier, had stood with tears in his eyes, broken by something that had broken me.
Be present for a man who had texted me multiple times a week, adding items like “Two tubes Polygrip –1 tube Ben Gay” to the ever present grocery list that I managed.
Be present for a man who believed in me, supported me, given to me over the span of forty years.
The shoes guided me through elevators, waiting rooms and finally the floor of ICU where I stood vigil.
There are no chairs in ICU. People don’t stay there. But I stayed. For 10 hours. Until there was nothing left to stay for.
Those shoes with no support supported me as I stood in support of him who was supported by every machine the hospital had.
The gold shoes are reminders of days where plans are rewritten, where the mortal crosses over into immortality and where eternity is breeched in a backyard on Redbud Avenue.