Comfortable Shoes

This morning I moved sprinklers.

Not once, but several times.

Our yard doesn’t have an automatic irrigation system anymore. When Tanya and I bought this place four years ago, the yard had been neglected. We hauled away truckloads of clutter, removed more tree stumps than I care to remember, cut down dead trees, and dug up most of a broken sprinkler system. Since then, I’ve become the irrigation system.

Every thirty minutes or so, I pick up the sprinkler and move it to another section of the yard.

As the water begins to spray, the birds scatter for a moment. Then they come back.

Blue jays.

Cardinals.

Robins.

Doves.

A red-headed woodpecker.

Several squirrels.

The water draws worms and insects to the surface, and before long breakfast is being served beneath the trees.

This morning, while moving sprinklers, I found myself thinking about an old pair of shoes.

Nearly fifty years ago I bought a pair from L.L. Bean. They’re still in remarkably good shape. The leather has softened with age, the soles have been replaced, and they still take a fine spit shine. Years ago, in the Air Force, I used to set my shoes beside my lieutenant’s just to compare whose shine looked better.

Someone once offered a seasoned military commander a new pair of shoes to replace his old, patched ones. He declined.

“I don’t want new ones,” he reportedly said. “These have just been broken in real good.”

I smiled when I remembered that story.

That’s exactly how life feels to me these days.

Not new.

Well broken in.

And I’ve begun to think that perhaps faith works the same way.

When we’re young, we often want shiny answers, dramatic experiences, and quick solutions. We imagine that maturity means finally having everything figured out.

It doesn’t.

Maturity feels more like an old pair of shoes that has walked a great many miles. They don’t draw attention to themselves anymore. They simply carry you faithfully down another road.

This morning, after changing the sprinklers, drinking coffee, washing the breakfast dishes, and putting on another pot of coffee for the later sleeper in our house, I sat down to write. As I reached over and touched the proof copy of a new book resting beside me, I found myself whispering a simple prayer.

“Thank You, Lord, that I’m still able to put my accumulated thoughts, ideas, and ruminations between covers.”

Then I prayed something even simpler.

“Would You let these words help someone else walk a little farther?”

At eighty-eight, I don’t feel like I’m running a sprint anymore.

This is a marathon.

One page.

One mile.

One day.

And perhaps one well-broken-in step at a time.

When I finished writing, I stepped back outside to move the sprinklers one last time.

The birds flew away for a moment.

Then they came back.

Somehow, I think that’s what grace has been doing all along.

Quietly watering places that looked dry.

Patiently feeding lives that didn’t even realize they were hungry.