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| Oh, I could have used this jar of change! |
When we were young parents with three small children, we were always struggling with finances. ‘Struggling’ is a mild word, for I was doing down-right brutal, in-the-mud, hand-to-hand battle with money, or the lack of it.
I was frugal, careful with every penny. I was so frugal that I would stop in the middle of a roasting parking lot in 114 degrees to pick up a flattened penny.
It was about the end of the month that I noticed that our 2 ½ year old son, Johnny, was walking slowly and seemed to have problems with his feet.
The GP doctor said that his feet were pronating which means…
to turn into a prone position; to rotate (the hand or forearm) so that the surface of the palm is downward or toward the back; to turn (the sole of the foot) outward so that the inner edge of the foot bears the weight when standing.
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| Laces on, tie shoes; untie shoes, look for shoes |
He sent us to an orthopedic doctor who would diagnose and write a prescription for special shoes.
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| Centipede from James and the Giant Peach |
Specialty doctor? Special shoes? Money, where would we get the money?
Somehow, God provided, and we brought home the ugliest shoes a boy has had to wear from Stride Rite shoe store (good store, by the way). They were brown leather, laced up over the ankle, and the sole had been adjusted for Johnny’s feet. Putting them on and off reminded me of the centipede in James and the Giant Peach. They cost $85.
That may not sound like a fortune now, but in 1981 when the mortgage rates were 16.5% and we had no money, it was a fortune.
Needless to tell any mother out there, boys misplace everything. Everything. At the end of the first day after bath time, the shoes were somewhere. My oldest daughter found them, and I talked straight into Johnny’s face about where the shoes would/should go each time he took them off. He nodded, as if he understood a word I had said.
For the next two days, we played hide-and-seek with these shoes made of gold. Finally at the end of the third day, I pulled Johnny up into my lap, and gave him the shoes, telling him (with tears in my eyes) that these shoes were made especially for HIM, because he was so special. With big eyes and a solemn nod, he went off to bed.
Before I turned in, I decided to make sure the shoes were where they were supposed to be, and they were not. Growing more and more frantic, I searched the house with my husband. We looked everywhere, no shoes.
I was ready to burst into Johnny’s room and wake him up, to ask him where the shoes were. I opened the door and walked in. What I saw changed my whole perspective.
Johnny was lying on his back with that soft kissable baby face. Tucked under each arm was a shoe, with his special arms tightly wrapped around those special shoes.
I kissed his rosy cheeks and brushed back his hair. God bless this child! I tiptoed out.
