Bare Feet

Hallelujah, it's barefoot season in the South! I wore sandals to church this morning and my toes are happy. Free at last, free at last.

That was one of the things we all loved about summers at Camp Celo. Shoes weren't only optional there, they were practically unheard of. You'd know you'd spent a summer at camp when the soles of your feet were as tough as the soles of your boots, and you could walk down the gravel road like nothin'. Tough feet were a badge of courage, and we strode with pride. Now my 9-year-old, Caleb, has Camp Celo fever, and he's got the dusty feet to prove it.

With my forays into the past, I've been thinking about the whole "walk a mile in my shoes" thing. Some of us would rather just take them off and wiggle our toes in the warm sand. But again, it's an image of changing perspective. Sharing perspective. With each other.

I've been asking--who knew how bad it was for us back then? What did they know? Why didn't more people know? Why didn't they get it? But this morning I took my shoes off and asked a different set of questions.

Okay, let's think of a family I'm close friends with. Got it. The parents are friends, the kids are friends, we hang out. Now imagine that the dad in that family has some wacky ideas, loves to talk about esoteric things. A little odd, but he's very charming, clearly well-educated, twinkle in his eye, interesting guy. The mom is a can-do woman. She has a job she loves, supports the family financially, and always seems to see the bright side of everything. She's very interested in what I'm up to, asks great questions, and always keeps the conversation going. Just one of those people that always seems cheerful, no matter what. Such a good friend. Good kids, too. Clean, healthy, smart, plenty of friends--they don't watch TV, so they're always reading books or playing outside or singing songs. Straight A kids.

There's the picture. Do I think the dad is beating up the mom, yelling in the night, controlling what they eat, where they go, who they see? Do I think he's paranoid, mentally ill, usually absent? Do I think I ought to find out more about what's happening, get involved, try to help?

No, frankly, I don't. There aren't any red flags. They seem okay to me. And the truth of the matter is, I don't want to believe that all that could possibly be true. I like these people. I want the best for them. I don't want to imagine that things could be that different, that horribly different, from how they appear.

Yep, I get it. I wouldn't want to see the truth either.

Sometimes, when I put my bare feet on solid ground, things get a little clearer. And when your feet are on solid ground, it's hard to imagine that the ground could be shaky for anybody else.