Trying on shoes
I’m shopping for shoes with my daughter Jessica, who is now twenty-six and tall and thin. Sometimes I can’t get over how beautiful she is. I’m not talking about her physical appearance, though of course being her mother I think she’s the fairest in all the land. But what I’m actually talking about is the sweetness of her heart, which I can always see, but which others sometimes can’t.
Anyway, she gets frustrated trying to find a pair and the salesclerk comes over and asks how she can help.
I explain that Jessica has very high arches and that it’s difficult to find shoes that fit. The salesclerk shows her some lace-up shoes and Jessica says, “But I don’t know how to tie my shoes.”
And this is where I catch my breath, where I always catch my breath, and try to figure out if I could have stopped the damage I know is coming, the shame and ridicule that always accompany these kinds of encounters, and what I will say later to try to repair the hurt, the constant reminders that she was born with a broken brain and people are cruel.
And the salesclerk says, without missing a beat, “Oh, well, in that case, you may want to try something like this,” and shows her a slip-on with elastic straps.
And Jessica tries out the shoes and decides to buy them while I’m standing in the aisle, trying to take it in, that it doesn’t have to be so hard, if only people would be like this woman working in a shoe store, who has no idea that she just healed a heart.