Walking in Another Woman's Shoes

I suggested to our small-town church that I orchestrate a clothing drive for the homeless who are served by the organization Missoula 3:16, named after the Bible verse from the gospel of John.

I could do this, and maintain my sanity—a recent concern of mine since I’d gone a bit overboard and volunteered with nearly every non-profit group in Missoula, Montana, home to the largest number of non-profits per capita in the country. Having retired and relocated, my involvement would generate new friendships, I thought. Before I knew it, I was busier than I’d ever been as a full time professional. I knew it was time to cut back when I didn’t have a moment to let the dogs out before hitting the highway in an effort to make another meeting. But how does one just say “no” to all this goodness?

The bulletin announcement asking for apparel donations was published, and soon after ten-gallon black trash bags appeared on the church doorstep every other day. It took my husband’s strength to lift them into the pick-up, drive them home, and transfer them to my SUV. When every inch of interior space was stuffed from floorboard to ceiling, I knew it was time to haul this first load into the thrift shop whose profits support Missoula’s homeless population. There would be more to come; best to handle the situation in stages.

In an extra added fit of generosity, I’d offered to not only deliver but also sort out the contents—sift through the surprise sacks and help determine what goes where: thrift shop, street people, third world countries, or in some extreme cases, the dumpster. One man’s trash may be another man’s treasure, to be sure, but sometimes it’s everyman’s trash, period.

When I arrived at the shop, the woman in charge there—we’ll call her Sarah—greeted me with her usual smile and salutation.

“I can offer you an hour,” I said sheepishly. I felt guilty that my list of selfish errands only allowed me sixty spare moments during which I could assist in the sorting.

“That’s wonderful! Don’t be silly; we are thrilled to have the donations, and whatever amount of time you have is great!”

Sarah is always cheerful; her heart is gold, her spirit God-filled. She led me down the hall and into a small room where I would make the decisions; there was a bin for the items to be bailed and sent to impoverished all over the globe, the table upon which to stage the “best of the bunch” for sales in the thrift shop, and the boxes for “off season” wardrobe items that would find their way to a “sale” room.

“Come find me if you have questions.” Sarah patted me on the shoulder and turned to head back to her post in the shop, when she was interrupted by another volunteer. I was introduced, and then while they chatted I turned to squarely face the eighteen bags I’d ferried and methodically lined up on either side of the hallway. Best to get started if I was going to make a dent.

I opened the first bag to a collection of shoes: flip flops with rhinestones on the strap, cork-wedge white sandals, black tennis shoes, and whoa! What was this, pray tell? I’d extricated a single maroon Dansko clog! Frantically, I fished through the bag to find its mate, turned it over to see a clean sole, and the number 38.

“Look at these!” I blurted out loud before stopping to think about what I was doing. Both ladies turned to gape.

“Those are nice shoes!” they sang in unison, as they observed me reach down to remove a brown one of the same model from my own foot, flip it over, double check the donated one, and exclaim, “They’re my size!”

Before you could say “homeless” I’d kicked mine off and slipped into these—burgundy never having been my color of choice, but hey! Every outdoor woman knows there is absolutely nothing like another pair of hardy Dansko clogs. They could be my “outside” shoes—when I take the dogs out, drive the trash down the road, or walk down the gravel driveway to check the temperature.

“Take them!” urged Sarah.

“It was meant to be!” punctuated her volunteer.

“I can’t take shoes that have been contributed!” By now I was nearly screeching. “I feel like a thief!”

But with enough persuasion, could I? They were Danskos!

“I’ve been coveting (perhaps not a wise vocabulary choice when you are conversing with dedicated workers for a biblically-based organization) the forest green pair in the window of Hide and Sole on Higgins,” I explained, trying to sound sane. Why didn’t somebody stop me before I continued to make it worse? “But I didn’t want to spend the money.” This spoken by someone who has so many shoes she has to label the boxes to keep them straight. Shame on me? Certainly, but still, I kept right on going until I‘d inserted both feet in my mouth.

“I wanted the green, but God brought me the red!” Please. Was there any rationale for absconding a pair of shoes from the homeless, let alone by feigning divine intervention to ensure that I would have another pair of “outside shoes”?

Sarah was adamant that I take them, but with them on my feet, my feeling that I’d won the Dansko lottery ticket began to waver. I envisioned some woman living on the street barefoot when, by the grace of God, she discovers this pair of sensible and fashionable shoes to arm her toes against a bitter cold night on the sidewalks of Missoula. I imagined the tears of gratitude welling in her weary eyes.

“I can’t do it!” I shook my head as Sarah bent to fold some clothing from one of the donation sacks. “This has to be a sin.”

“Don’t be silly, dear; we all find things we can use now and then—and this is your reward for bringing us all this,” she said as her arms swept wide across the expanse of bundles that hugged the walls of the hallway.

“Is there a Bible verse that gives me permission?” My guilt overwhelmed my urge to shop.

“Give and you shall receive,” quoth Sarah. “But I’m not sure what book of the Bible says that.”

I rolled my eyes, thought about “Blessed are those who clothe the naked,” but after seeing the large number of shoe donations, nabbed the Danskos-the devil made me do it. Penitently, I vowed to increase my number of community service hours in exchange for evil extravagance. On the drive home, my conscience played with me to the extent that I wondered whether or not I could confess to my husband, a good man who would never take shoes from a donation drive. Once home, my silence lasted all of three hours before my transgression spewed froth like the opening of Pandora’s box. Brad was understanding—in fact, he even chuckled at my anxiety over pocketing the plunder.

“Should I take them back? Maybe I’d better take them back. Every time I wear them will I think about the homeless person who could be wearing them?”

“Get over it; keep them—but don’t wear them to church where the woman who donated them will see you, the clothing drive organizer, wearing her shoes.”

Good call.

Blessed are those who consider the needs of others; I would never do that to her.