Christmas Shoes: What do you do when your shoes no longer fit?

Wear shoes on your feet which are the Good News of peace.

—Ephesians 6:15 NLV

                    

Carefully, I removed a shiny blue bulb from a paper carton and placed it on a welcome branch. My reflection bounced back at me, and my breath caught in my throat. At age 10, I couldn’t quite put into words the reverence for the Christmas season, but I felt it in my heart—a warmth that radiated from the surrounding family members, all engaged in preparing for a Savior’s birth.

I was the oldest of my parents’ (then) five children, and true to birth order traits, I became an achiever and a perfectionist. To me, Christmas was the most perfect season and everything about Christmas had to be done with perfection. That included decorating the tree, under Mom’s careful supervision. Ornaments had to be perfectly placed, evenly spaced, and no same colors next to one another. The angel had to top the tree, and tinsel had to be draped perfectly over the ends of every extended bough. Once decorating was complete, all could exhale a simultaneous “Aaahhh.”

That’s what we were doing that afternoon on December 18, 1971. All of us—my siblings, my parents, my grandfather, and myself—were sitting around the living room admiring the Christmas tree. A beautiful moment to be frozen in time.

“A pretty tree,” Granddaddy remarked in a whisper, not for effect but because his vocal chords had been affected by a stroke.

Yes, it’s perfect, I thought. Then I glanced down at my shoes and noted that not all was perfect. My shoes were worn out, my toes scrunched inside. I couldn’t wear these on Christmas. I had to have new shoes, and I had to convince my parents to take me shopping.

No Turning Back

“When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

—Luke 15:17-20

Farm cats are typically outdoor cats that keep undesired rodents from entering the farmer’s house and eating stored grain crops. My mouse-catchers, Sam and Sandy, are tough cats. They’ve weathered many storms, sheltering in the crawl space beneath my house. I was sure they would do the same in the recent blizzard, which blew in on a Friday afternoon.

I fed them well that morning and then settled in myself, bracing for the storm, predicted to rage for a couple of days.

After the sky dropped more than a foot of snow, it gave up its tantrum and smiled brightly on Sunday morning. I emerged from my shelter to shovel and clear a space on the deck, where I placed bowls of cat food and water.  I called for the kitties, but neither came forth. I called again. Still no response.

Shovel in hand, I trudged through knee-deep snow to the entrance to the crawl space. As my boots crunched through the crusty surface, I heard faint feline mews rising from beneath the hatch, now covered with a mound of white stuff. Quickly, I went to work, digging deep, until I had opened up the passage. I called to them, but they didn’t emerge. I called again. Still nothing.