Bare Feet

I have a friend who likes to take off her shoes. Family members joke about her habit and roll their eyes each time she sends another picture of her feet resting comfortably on the banister of some deck overlooking another picturesque sunset. True to form, the signature photograph for her blog is of her feet (and those of close friends). . . up, crossed, and utterly relaxed.

This summer I have had my shoes off a bit, and each time I do I think about my friend and her perpetual bare feet. It’s more than comfort. For me, it represents a view of life, and my hope is that, with or without shoes, I can hold that view more often.

Many years ago, a man named Moses was minding his own business when he encountered a bush that was burning but not being consumed by the flames. Startled, he quickly realized it was an encounter with something, or someone, greater than he, and was instructed to remove his shoes for the ground on which he stood was holy. Moses, like my friend, took off his shoes.

It’s hard to stay busy and down to business when your toes are free to wiggle about. It’s hard to think about all that you need when a breeze swirls around your infant like feet and reminds you of all you have. When looking out at a sunset or sunrise, watching children playing tag on the lawn, or talking to a long lost friend, bare feet are helpful. They remind us that the ground on which we stand is holy. It was way back when. It remains so today.

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Burying Fear.

In an effort to celebrate the long-awaited vacation at the beach, the father bought a special ball for his son. Using the newest technology, the ball was designed to bounce off the water like no other. Throughout the vacation, the father waited to see his son use the ball, but it was never taken from its box. After a week, the father asked why his son wasn’t using the ball, only to be told that the boy was afraid he might lose it.

Jesus once told a parable about three individuals being given gifts by their wealthy master. Two used the gifts and increase their value; the third buried his in the ground for fear of losing or wasting the gift.

The ball, and the boy’s fear of losing it, is a modern example of holding onto gifts rather than using them as they were intended. There are many others, but the truth behind them all is that we were given the various gifts of our lives for a purpose. How sad it is to see fear paralyze a recipient’s use of such gifts.

If you and I were to look at all we’ve been given, we might focus on the things or talents we possess, the security we enjoy, and leave the inventory there, but I have recently been reminded that some of the gifts we have been given are the cuts and scrapes of life. Like the gifts we call “good,” these painful gifts can be incredibly important as well. Fears, unfortunately, keeps us from using them so we bury them in the ground.

With the help of Diana Greene, a remarkable photographer, I have embarked on a creative and spiritual collaboration that will be a book, once we find the funding. It is entitled “Finding Home: Portraits in Courage,” and tells the stories of the men of Prodigals Community. Through words and photographs, the men use their stories to bring to life the horror of addiction and miracle of recovery.  Like the boy with the ball, or the countless others who live by fear, the men could have buried their stories, but they have come to know them as the gifts they are. Instead, they have taken what they have been given and offered it to the world.

Their stories are now increasing in value, just as their invitation to you and me to do the same is growing louder. May we, like them, bury our fears, not our gifts.

(Finding Home: Portraits in courage is now on display at the Winston-Salem Public Library, 660 West Fifth Street, Winston-Salem NC)

Making peace with par.

Good golf looks boring.  A player who reaches a green in regulation, two-putts, and walks off with a par makes a game that occupies much time and thought look downright routine.

I don’t happen to be such a player. When I am able to get a par, I’m embarrassed by my discontent. Too often, I want a shot beyond my abilities. Referred to as “low percentage,” I try a shot that’s spectacular and memorable: Drive a green on a par four . . .  chip it in from the sand. . .  hit the ball from behind a tree, over two traps, and hit the flag leaving it six inches from the hole . . . these are the moments which can irretrievably alter one’s approach to the game. They cause discontent with the ordinary, and hunger for the nearly impossible.

Playing the game as it was intended will, in the long run, provide sustainable joy, keeping mishaps and pleasant surprises minor. (It will also cause fewer back problems.) Pars, with bogies and birdies on either side, becomes the typical range of one’s game. A round in search of birdies brings with it a rare eagle and countless double and triple bogies.

As I made my way around a golf course recently, such thoughts reminded of what a mirror golf is to life. There are those who play it as it was intended, with minor mishaps and surprises along the way. Others demand more out of life, often more than life can provide, and end up with dramatic results. Desire for love that is rapturous each day, wine that’s always vintage, bank accounts overflowing, and work that is meaningful and lucrative, are like trying to hole a shot from 175 yards out. It's pssible, but not likely.

Living for birdies and eagles is exhausting and, most often, frustrating. Better to make peace with the way life was intended. It may appear boring from time to time, but the joy it provides is sustainable and lasting.

At least, that’s what I’ve heard.