“God is not so much the object of our knowledge as the cause of our wonder."
—Kalistos Ware
The other day I was walking near a cove a mile or so from my house, and a pair of shoes caught my attention—because they were my shoes; my favorite shoes. I do not covet many things, but these Birkenstocks took some effort to wear in and they fit me perfectly during a season of life when I needed something to fit perfectly.
These shoes, my shoes, had disappeared three months earlier at the beach. I remember talking on the phone and, perhaps because it was a difficult conversation—one which left me understanding how the delusions of heartache can be life threatening—I took my shoes off to ground myself in the sand. When I went to find my shoes, they were gone.
I assumed the woman with whom I chatted earlier had taken them. And I was angry about my shoes disappearing. I’m stationed on a small island, where people run into each other often, and occasionally I spot the woman from the beach. Every time I saw her, I asked myself, Should I say something? Should I ask if she likes my shoes? Should I tell her how much I miss them and would do anything to have them back?
Then, on New Year’s Day, there they were: my shoes! They were resting where I couldn’t miss them: at eye level on a fence by the side of the road, on a different part of the island. I stopped and stared; I had to put them on to believe what was happening.
My shoes returned to me different. The white leather straps are worn. There’s some corrosion around the buckle. Perhaps the tide took them and not the woman. I’ll never know, but they’re home and recovering from whatever they’ve witnessed.
This seemed to me to be a sign that this is how life works; how I work. How the things I love can be taken away. How I can make up meaning and ascribe blame to neighbors, to tides. How God hears prayer, and how it takes time to respond, so wait and watch; watch and wait. How am I like the shoes—for a season lost in the underworld, but found: dusted up but fine, and totally wearable?
Prayer
Holy one, you who give our pride the sobering chill of winter, you who give us our portion in due season, you who receive our regrets as prayers, you who make ways in the wilderness, you whose ways are not our ways, holy one, for you I will watch and wait.