Joseph is napping, Jacob and Hannah are playing some sort of dress-up game involving trains and lassos, Benjamin just woke up with bright red ears from a late nap and Dave, sounding a bit like a leaky air mattress, is asleep on the couch. We enjoyed a last minute brunch date with some new friends after Mass and, thus, the whole day has been shifted forward by two hours. I am taking advantage of the relative quiet to jot down a few thoughts. The only interruption to this peaceful state is the sound of skidoos in the background. We have a trail that runs behind our house and mercifully only seems to be in use on the weekends. Skidoos are one of the annoying facts of life in our small town. For those of you who have never heard the sound of a skidoo breaking the silence of a winter afternoon ... the closest sound is that of a mosquito circling near your ear as you approach the edge of sleep. Except, of course, that a skidoo is much louder and can't be squished by the swat of the hand. Years ago I did some practice teaching at the local high school. In the middle of the lesson my ears were accosted by a loud and disturbing sound outside of the school. I stopped the class to look out the window and figure out what could possibly be going on. The students all laughed as the non-local watched as students arrived at school atop their snow machines. One of the students (who was itching to blow out of town) quickly piped up, "Welcome to town, Miss." I am sure that student will never know that he and I have switched places. (Now for an awkward transition to a new thought.)
Speaking of switching places, little Joe required that I leave the comfort of my pew for some standing room only at the back of our church. I am not joking that there is standing room only. Our new church is quite literally packed and upwards of twenty people stand throughout Sunday mass. Very encouraging. Anyway, Dave is usually the parental authority at the back of the church, but due to our positioning in the pew and an immovable parishioner on Dave's side, it was I who headed back with a naughty babe in arms. I repeated to myself Dave's back of the church mantra, "Keep him in my arms, don't let go, he must learn that leaving the pew is not fun. Keep him in my arms, don't let go..." when my thoughts were jolted from their meditation by the shoes of the man kneeling in front of me. Two different shoes. His right foot was wearing a black, Oxford dress shoe, well worn on the ball of his foot with soles that would give no traction in the snow and ice. His left foot was tucked into a brown, all-purpose, rubber-soled shoe with no signs of wear. I studied the shoes and then glanced at the upper half of his body to see if it held any clue to his questionable footwear. Nope. He was around 60 years of age and wearing a very fashionable black leather jacket. I checked the feet again to see if I had the right ones matched up. Yup. I still have no idea what precipitated his choice of shoe and probably never will. However, I am comforted by the knowledge that St. Teresa of Avila admittedly spent the first 18 years or so of her religious life staring at the heel of the Sister in front of her. Perhaps I too will graduate from shoes to sanctity.
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