simon.

three years had shaped them by the soles of my feet
and had bound them to every journey
across state borders and through customs inspections
and they, my constant companions, had collected soil from four five six seven countries
across one two three oceans

shoes of privilege, they were: bound to feet of privilege, tied to a world of privilege

yet, with worn edges and paint stains, they remained what they were: slippers

but to watch him hesitantly slip his feet in and out
as they sat, vacant on the doorstep
to admire the perfect fit
with excited eyes, to imagine the adventures he could take and the games he could play


i would trade every pair
over and over and over and over
until kingdom come
for the sweetest hug and the simplest whisper:
"thank you, kara"
of the boy to whom they now belong




it was what i could do
and not nearly enough
but, what was required of me

as if these shoes, and these soles, and these feet
arms, hands and body
and everything it possesses
were mine to begin with

is it possible?
it must be possible
that these slippers,
given by God,
now find a home on the feet of Jesus

and now a simple question resounds in my ears and in my eyes and in my heart:
what else needs a new home?