August 2012 Letter–Dear Shoes,

I remember when I bought you–nine whole dollars at Kmart; dirt cheap for running shoes, but I figured that since I didn’t know what I was doing anyway, it was better not to invest too much into you.

You were cushiony, and comfortable.  I laced you up and went to run a mile. Painful to say the least.  But you did not give me any blister. Then I went for another mile. And another. And another. Five months later, you had hundreds of mile under your soles, and you and I made it through our first marathon.  Do you remember the mud sloshing inside of you, and the cold, and the sweat? And the exhilaration when you and I crossed the finish line? Your light blue lines were filthy, and your soles a bit unglued. But you and I stuck together, didn’t we? 

You taught me so much in the process.  

I learned that sometimes, all it takes is putting you on.  Then you take over and take me on to where I need to go.

I learned that dependable is more important than beauty.  I would have trusted you over any fancy shoes on Marathon Day.  

I learned that putting you on is daring an adventure.  And I never, ever regretted any of them.

I learned that some things must be experienced one step at a time. And shoes help in the process.

I learned to love where you took me; I discovered beauty and strength in unexpected places, I gleaned courage from daring to go forward.

You taught me to love the unlovable moments, because in them, I was more alive than ever.  And for that, I am forever grateful. 

You are long gone, dear marathon shoes.  Since then, my feet have enjoyed many different shoes, and they all teach me the same lessons, over and over again.  But you were the first.

Thank you for all the joy you brought to me,


Cultivating Thankfulness with Ann Voskamp

#224 my current running shoes

#223 Daisies

#222 the evening bird songs in my backyard

#221 my new summer sandals

Linking up with WIP, Faith Jam, Create with Joy, Faith Filled Fridays,  Denise in Bloom, Fridaysfaves, and Beneath the Surface