I got some new yellow shoes.

There is a lot to process in my life right now. Dion’s ongoing reality with Multiple Sclerosis, numerous losses at The Dale, and the fragile state of the world all sit with weight together. It makes for a heavy heart and a churning mind.

So you might wonder why I’m talking about my shoes.

At different points of crisis in my life, I’ve been reminded of the necessity of being present to the moment. Not dwelling in the past or living in an imagined future has never come easily to me. The last fourteen years, especially, have been a long season of learning. Sometimes that learning has been very physical. I’ve placed a hand on either side of my head and quite literally guided myself back to what is right in front of me: a cup of coffee, dishes in the sink, the squirrel that munches on the mulberries in my backyard, a board game at the drop-in. It has taken that kind of intentionality to begin building a new muscle.

Any personality test I’ve ever taken points to my tendency toward caregiving. It’s true. I often focus on the needs of others, sometimes to the detriment of my own. My mind easily shifts into anticipating and preparing for the next challenge or crisis. There is some good in that, but left unchecked it can quietly pull me away from the present.

Over time, I’ve come to understand how important it is for me to balance that heart-focus with something more physical and grounding. This means paying attention to my body. And this is where my shoes come in, helping me feel my feet on the ground.

Given the intensity of this season, I decided a new pair of shoes might help anchor me, in my body and in the present moment. I put them on and notice the cushioning beneath my feet. The bright pop of yellow makes me smile. As I walk, I try to settle into each step. I imagine myself rooted.

I’ve long been drawn to John O’Donohue’s reflection on the quiet poise of trees, their ability to integrate loss, change, and darkness with a kind of dignity. He writes, “Letting go of old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms of life.” That’s what I long for, to be so deeply rooted that I can withstand the storms.

I know this kind of rootedness isn’t something I can manufacture through effort alone. My faith shapes how I move through all of this, leaning on a strength that is not my own. On my first walk in those yellow shoes, a simple refrain kept rising: “I am weak, but Thou art strong.”

They are, in the end, just a regular pair of shoes.
But for me, they are a reminder of so much.