SATURDAY THOUGHTS: EASTER EVE: SHOE MEMORIES

At about this time, back in 1972, my Mom asked my Dad to take my big sister and me shoe shopping. 

I hated shoe shopping back then. I vaguely recall thinking that Orthopedic was a person. I never understood why Mr. Arthur Pedic couldn't use his cobbling skills to make a pretty shoe. 

The usual stop was Stride Rite in Eastover Shopping Center, or Boyce and Lewis in NW, DC on 7th Street. 

It was unusual on this Easter eve, that Mommy was still sewing. 

She'd selected a lovely McCalls, Butterick, or Simplicity pattern for me. It allowed for a print fabric at the top of the dress, and a plain fabric for the skirt. 

I liked the lavender she'd selected and the pretty floral matched perfectly. 

Mommy loved to sew. She had to make three Easter outfits after my little sister was born in 1967. 

For some Easter celebrations, she’d even made coats for us.

I always wondered why she preferred to sew. 

I learned it wasn't always a matter of economics. 

She'd go to stores like Greta Stevens, Woodward and Lothrop, Landsburg's, or Garfinkle’s, and not only look at the clothes, but the seams, hems, top stitching, linings, and buttonholes. 

I could always tell when she was intent on sewing. 

"Look at this. The edges aren't even finished. I can make this a lot better, and for a lot less". 

She was right. She could. She was an amazing seamstress. To her, sewing was an stress-relieving hobby. 

It was important to her that her children be presentable. She felt that it was her responsibility. She wasn’t going to be dressed up while her daughters looked like vagabonds, or raggamuffins.

Mommy would go without certain things for herself, so that we could have. 

She never complained, but I knew it. 

I always thought she could have made quite a living just sewing. Her creations really did look better than everything in the stores. 

She could spend hours in fabric stores choosing material, or leafing through the huge pattern books.

I remember asking her why she rarely sewed for other people. She always said that she knew she could please herself.  It was a little more difficult trying to please someone else. She didn't want to deal with someone being dissatisfied with the work she'd done. She didn't want pressure, stress, or criticism being applied to something that she loved to do.

Our new outfits would usually be pressed and hanging on hangers, by the time Good Friday rolled around, but she'd gotten behind schedule in 1972. She was a teacher, too, and I now realize just how much she had on her plate. 

She didn't have to sew. 

She wanted to, and time was ticking away as the needle and thread struck the fabric that Saturday. 

We were supposed to go shopping for shoes, and it was beginning to look like we would be wearing shoes we already had. 

It was no problem in my mind, but Mommy wanted us to have new shoes. (This new outfit would not only satisfy the Easter tradition, but it would be carefully worn to school on Picture Day.)
I remember her asking my Dad if he would take us shoe shopping, so that she could finish our dresses. 

My Dad was not the shopping bunny. His idea of shopping was to know what was being sought after ahead of time, go into the store, get it, and leave. 

He reiterated this same philosophy as we rode from our house to the same J.C. Penney where Mommy shopped for the fabric. 

The shoe department was at the back of the store, on the first level. Daddy said, "Look around and get what you want". 

I still remember being completely stunned. Mommy never said anything like that. She was always concerned about comfort, fit, and durability. “Ruining” our feet was a concern of hers. Every now and then, I'd emerge with a shoe I liked, but never one that I loved. 

I suppose I should be grateful for a mom who was concerned about the health of my feet--which were, and still are larger than both my sisters'. 

Robyn could pick out a cute shoe, and I could pick the same shoe, but when it emerged from the box, it never looked the same…lol

I hated shoe shopping--that is, until that Easter Eve. 
On the shelf was a white, patent leather, t-strapped pump, with a semi-chunky 2.5 inch heel. 

It was calling my name, and I answered. 

I would be celebrating my 12th birthday that year. 

I had never worn heels in my life. 

My sister spied a white, patent leather, round-toed, sling-back pump. 

We looked at each other, smiled, then took our selections to Daddy, who'd found a seat as soon as we got there. 

I was waiting for him to say something like, "Are you crazy?" or "Pick something else. They're too grown-up". Instead, he said, "Is that what you all want?" 

We both said an enthusiastic "Yes Sir!" 

Daddy gave the shoes to the salesman, and we sat waiting for our dream shoes to return. 

I prayed that he wouldn't come back and say, "I'm sorry Honey. We don't have YOUR size, but we have THESE. 

"THESE" had always been some hideous, brogan-plank of a shoe, that made me hate my feet. 

Who knew that, at the time (and even now), the shoes I always chose were never in stock because my shoe size was so common?
The salesman came back and handed us the boxes. 

He helped both of us put on our new shoes. 

I stood up and walked all over the shoe department. The carpet allowed me to glide and turn like a dancer. The heels miraculously made my feet look smaller. 

I think it was the first time in my life that I smiled in a shoe department. 

I even wanted to wear them out of the store. 

I'd never wanted to do that before.

As Daddy paid for our new shoes, Robyn and I were giggling like the school girls we were. 

As we left the store, each one of us were swinging our bags. We smiled all the way home. 

I can't count how many times I peeked into the box at my shoes. I loved them, and couldn't believe they were mine.

When we got back home, Mommy asked to see our shoes. When she saw them, the smile left her face. 

She was not happy. 

They were not the suitable, flat Mary Jane's that she'd anticipated. 

She asked my Dad if he had picked out the shoes. 

I could tell that she regretted asking him to take us, and it was too late by then to take them back. 

For the rest of the evening, she shook her head and muttered about our shoes, as she continued to sew. 

I didn't like that Mommy was so unhappy, but nothing could take away the joy I felt. 

Finally, there would be pretty shoes on my feet. 

I decided that day that it would always be that way. 

I was glad that Mommy cheered up when we got dressed. Our new shoes really did complement the beautiful dresses she'd made, and we didn't "break our necks", trying to walk in them, either.

I know that the death, burial and resurrection of Christ have absolutely nothing to do with shoes or apparel. 

I understand the concepts of newness of life, redemption, cleansing, and starting over. It's been a long time since I've deliberately shopped for Easter. 

I carried on the tradition when I became a mother, and dyed eggs, bought baskets, and dolled up my daughter in frilly dresses, lacy socks or tights, and patent leather Buster Brown’s shoes, until she could communicate that the dolling-up was no longer necessary. 

She has the same approach to shopping that my Dad has. She also knows that this season has a much loftier focus than deciding what one is going to purchase in order to impress other people. 

My daughter accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior, and that makes me incredibly glad. What she also inherited was the love of shoes that my mother had, and that I have, and her choices are stunning.

We don't need an occasion. There's something about a new pair of shoes that brightens the day. I don't know. Maybe it's the consistency and variety of footwear. When everything else changes, and makes it necessary to adjust, the shoe experience never disappoints.

I remember that Easter Sunday morning as we prepared to go to church. Baskets that had been hidden, suddenly appeared in the living room. 

Daddy had his Polaroid camera ready to take pictures of us. 

As I sat down in the chair, I remember asking him, "Daddy, can you see my shoes?" 

He nodded that he could. Mommy had made a lovely dress, and she even pressed and pin-curled my hair. 

That day, I felt good about myself. I was happy the entire day. I felt blessed. I'd been given a gift. 

We weren't spoiled by any stretch of the imagination. We had what we needed, and wants were relegated to birthdays and Christmas. Easter 1972 was like Christmas and my birthday combined.

It's always wise to learn of the significance of the things you do, and not just blindly adopt practices just because of tradition. There are things that we do that are harmless and fun, enjoyable and refreshing. When we attach God to our practices, we really have to make sure that we don't trivialize his place in our lives. We have to make sure that the things we do don't overshadow the lessons he wants us to learn. We have to keep our focus on what's important.

I have a pair of white patent leather pumps somewhere in my closet. I doubt if I'll break them out tomorrow. Although I still wear them on occasion, I'm not so eager to be flung up in high-heeled shoes these days. 

It seems that Mommy was right about the vulnerability of ankles and knees. 

Cute is rapidly giving way to comfort, but when the occasion calls for it, I still have choices, and those choices have a strict time limit.

My mom passed away in 2003, but I can still hear the sound of her sewing machine. She was a believer in the finished work of Calvary-- and a believer in going to the house of God in your best attire. I'm sure she would have had a new suit, shoes, and a say-something hat to wear tomorrow (as would all of her contemporaries), and she would have been beautiful as she worshiped.

Traditions are lovely. 

So are good memories. 

I'm looking forward to going to church tomorrow. 

Happy Easter.