Shoes

Tonight,
before bed,
I went to the garage to get a pair of shoes for tomorrow.

I'll be working, but not as usual. Along with
most people from my company,
I'll be in the community.
Helping.

As I looked at the shoes,
I noticed holes.
Mud.
White Dust.

The holes come from countless miles walked in them.
Through trails.
Up streets.
Down the cobblestones sidewalks of Loughborough, England.

The mud came less than a month ago.
Trees and mud came down in neighbors' yards.
Forced by a deluge down a natural path to an unnatural resting place.
The mud came from being stuck ankle deep taking off limbs
of the tree, hoping to help in a small way.

The white dust came from a stranger's house.
Someone who needed help. A name I don't remember.
It came a little after the mud, in a fit of impotent frustration
that turned into action.
A condo with trash piled outside, and a grand piano that had become trash.
I offered help; they accepted.
And the dust of a life covered the shoes and embedded in the treads.

Tomorrow, there will be new signs.
Whether mud, or paint, or stains, or something unforeseen.
New holes.
Or perhaps just a smell.
Perhaps they'll become unwearable.
But even in that,
The shoes will be a sacrifice,
A pleasing aroma to The One Who inspires the action
of Faith.
Of a life lived for others.